


The Shadow Lily

by Emsonata



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC Extended Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Enemies to Friends, Family, Friendship, Major Character Injury, Male-Female Friendship, Original Character(s), Survival, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2020-10-14 06:10:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20596001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emsonata/pseuds/Emsonata
Summary: After a plane crash strands her on an abandoned Pacific island, Malin Levine finds herself in the middle of an international conspiracy. To survive, she pairs up with a terrifying stranger who could be the key to her survival, or her death.





	1. Dark Mass

My stomach drops.

I grip the armrests for dear life and instantly I'm awake. It's a few moments of shaky breath and a pounding heart before the world comes into focus. A dark row of seats in front of me. My cramped aisle seat. A Japanese woman snoozing soundly next to me in the middle seat and her husband by the window. Endless dipping and swaying. And the steady droning of the passenger airliner’s engines.

I relax my grip and take a few steadying breaths. I don't remember falling asleep. I thought it'd be impossible to get any sleep at all on this flying death box. Especially while going over the world's largest ocean, at night. I rub my eyes underneath my glasses and I pull out my cell phone to squint at the small screen. 4:08 am. Eleven hours since we took off from Starling City, and we still have over an hour to go before we land in Japan.

It'll be dawn soon, but I can only see pitch-black through the oval window. Maybe that's a good thing. The endless blurry blue beneath us for the first few hours of the flight put my stomach in a constant cartwheel. I adjust my stiff legs and pull my grey denim jacket closer. A few people sit quietly awake in their seats, but everyone else is asleep, except for two stewardesses moving down the aisle to the front of the plane.

"Get some sleep?" a voice across the aisle asks.

It's Hunter. A first year college kid with a casual leg stretched out completely into the aisle. He wears a neck pillow around the front of his neck and unashamedly nestles his face into it. How is that even comfortable?

I lift my shoulders in a partial shrug. "A little."

"Yeah. I can't sleep at all on these things."

Good for you. I give a polite nod and angle my shoulders away from him to end the conversation. He's not a bad kid. But once he starts talking he doesn't stop. Professor Vivanco learned early in the semester to just talk over him until he shuts up. I'm not there yet. I'd rather not talk to him at all.

"It's better if you don't sleep on planes.” He says. “You're actually supposed to only take ten or twenty minute naps every hour so you don't get jet lag. When we get to Japan, I’m going to go for a run every day. That keeps you from getting jet lag, too. You should come with me. I’m a really good runner. When I was in high school...”

I sigh and tuck my arms around my chest. It's only for the summer. The horticulture program at Central City Community College sent students to our sister city, Miyazaki, for a summer internship. I wanted an internship closer to home, preferably one I didn't have to cross a giant ocean in a hurtling metal tube to get to. Something in Starling City maybe. But how many other chances to travel would I get once I graduated? Central City is home, but if I don't step away and be a part of something else now, I never will. At least that’s what my counselor told me. We'll spend most of the internship doing field work though, which I love. Visiting farms and greenhouses, talking to local farmers and agriculturalists, visiting horticulture labs at local universities, getting our hands dirty. I can handle digging away in rural Japanese farms and playing with plants for the summer. I’ll be fine.

But my siblings, on the other hand...

Sitting on the train from Central City to Starling and then waiting to board was the longest day of my life. And not just because I was waiting to board a plane for the first time ever. Last night James said he wanted to call me all on his own before I got on the plane, and Nona said she would watch him and make sure he did it right. At the airport, I had been stewing in an anxiety ridden dread for almost five hours when my little phone finally buzzed and said: _Call from: Home._

James. Warmth bloomed in my stomach and I couldn’t stop a little smile from spreading across my face. I flipped open the phone and eagerly pressed it to my ear. “Hey, bud, is that you?”

There was a brief pause before a woman's voice said, “Malin? It's me."

The warmth in my chest faded a bit. “Hi, mom.”

"Hi, sweetie...I'm just calling to check up on you. Did you make it to the airport okay?" 

I nodded. "Yep."

"Good, I'm glad.” She cleared her throat. “When does your plane take off?"

"In a little bit."

"Okay, good. Jeff says there's supposed to be a storm around Japan tonight. Are you flying through that?"

Cold nausea replaced the warmth. “Yes, but we'll be fine. It's a small storm. Don't worry about it."

"Oh good. Just be careful.”

As if there's anything I could do about a storm. I closed my eyes and tried to hold tight to that last shred of warmth in my chest.. "Are the kids there? I want to say goodbye before we start boarding."

"Oh, no they're not. Jeff took them to get ice cream."

"What?" My heart fell. "James said he’d call me right when he got home from school. And since when does Jeff take them anywhere?"

"He can take them out anytime he wants, Malin. They're his kids."

Awfully convenient that Jeff decided to be a dad the day I leave. But I couldn’t say that. Mom and I parted at the train station on relatively good terms; I didn't want to ruin that. "When will they be back?"

"I don't know, Mal. I'm sure they'll be back in time to say goodbye."

"We're about to leave, mom. I don't have much longer."

Mom sighed. "Well, just call us when you get there, okay? You can talk to the kids then and tell them all about Japan."

I bit my lip and held back a sigh of my own. It’d be five in the morning when we arrived in Miyazaki. And the first several days will be far too busy to pick up any phone to make an international call. It'd be days before I speak to the kids again.

"Ladies and gentleman," the stewardess's voice sounded over the PA, "We will begin boarding our premium class and business select seats now. Please have you tickets in hand and make your way to the gate..."

I sighed. "I have to go, mom. We're boarding now. Tell the kids I love them and I'll talk to them as soon as I can."

"Alright, Mal. Be safe. Love you."

"Love you."

I flipped the phone shut, thirty minutes later I was aboard the plane, and that was that.

I left this morning before the kids were even awake, and I promised them last night I'd talk to them before I left the country. And now they won’t see me for two months. They’ve never been without me for so long, but they have Mom...and Jeff. But they'll be fine for the summer. They’ll have to be.

The snoozing Japanese lady next to me hiccups, and her head lolls onto my shoulder. I try not to flinch away. She and her husband were polite, but said nothing to me when we first boarded, except when she noticed my rolled-up sleeves and pointed to my left forearm. "Pret-ty."

She meant the small tattoo perpendicular to my wrist: just two words in some fancy elvish script from those Tolkien movies. Nona was obsessed with them, and the tattoo was her eleventh birthday present from me. Her idea. I don't care for those stories, but she adores them, and the look on her face when she pleaded with me to get the ink was enough to melt me.

The woman asked in very broken English what it meant. I pointed to the first word. "Wynona." And then the second. "James. My brother and sister." Nona and Jimmy. Although James was now too big for that name and should I start calling him Jim, he recently told me.

The woman raised her eyebrows and smiled, nodding emphatically. Then she turned to her husband and the conversation was over. But now I’d prefer a bit of awkward small talk to them both snoring and making sounds in their sleep.

As I sit listening to the plane’s droning roar - and Hunter's entire life story, again - something pricks the back of my mind. I've forgotten something. No I've haven't; I went over my packing list a thousand times and I've double and triple-checked everything. It's only nerves.

I sigh and try to stretch my legs. And then it hits me. When I woke up a moment ago...I didn't just wake up on my own. Something woke me up.

Before I can think about it, there's a soft sound several rows in front of me. Two flight attendants stand with heads bowed together, whispering. They're both Japanese and I can only pick up a few words. One quickly says something to the other, then they both glide down the aisle towards me.

The stewardesses. They were walking down the aisle just a few moments ago. Maybe that's what woke me up. I don't know much about what flight attendants do during long flights, but don't they sleep? The two women pass me, faces grim, and hurry down the aisle to the back of the plane and disappear through the galley curtain.

A small knot twists in my stomach. What would make flight attendants worried?

But nothing else happens, and I settle in for one last hour of flying. Hunter goes on and on about his high school cross country days - which were decades ago, apparently - and I chew my tongue to keep from snapping at him.

The plane gives a long, slow lurch, and my gut drops. I feel weightless for a moment, then gravity pulls me down again. The plane's been doing that the entire flight and - according to Hunter - it's just the engines adjusting to the wind and the elevation.

The pilots are probably just changing altitude. Nausea ekes into my gut and I breathe in an out slowly. My stomach calms a bit, but the prickly feeling in my mind doesn't disappear.

A muted ding sounds through the overheard speakers and the cabin lights go on. I open my eyes to find the 'Fasten Seat Belt' sign lit.

"Ladies and gentleman, we apologize for the disruption, but we are about to experience some turbulence. We ask that you return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. The stewardesses will be along to make sure your tray tables are turned up and your seats are in the upright position."

Out of nowhere, four flight attendants glide down the aisles, rousing sleeping passengers and speaking to them in hushed tones.

“Yeah, I figured,” Hunter says reassuringly to no one. “There’ll be way more turbulence as we get closer to Japan because of the mountains. The jet stream over mountains can get really nasty and sometimes they're bad enough to bring down a plane. I went to Colorado last year with my friends for a ski trip and - ”

I squeeze my eyes shut. That's the _last_ thing I need to hear. The plane flies steadily for a moment, then the turbulence hits. The wings dip and sway as the wind catches them, and I grab my armrests again. For almost twenty minutes, the plane bounces and sways and it's all I can do to clamp my mouth shut and swallow my stomach back down. Japan. Less than an hour. Then solid ground where we belong. Hunter speaks louder and faster to compete with the turbulence, and I wonder if smacking him would make him shut up or just talk more.

Then the speaker on the intercom interrupts, and Hunter has the good graces to stop and listen.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the captain says, "unfortunately, we have a complication with one of our engines, and we will need to make a premature landing.”

My heart leaps into my throat and now I'm really awake._ Premature landing. _Land where? We’re in the middle of the ocean!

The pilot continues, his voice calm and steady. “There is an island with an airstrip nearby and we will touch down there within twenty minutes. We apologize for the delay, and ask that everyone remain calm. We are handling the situation with great care and we will return to the air as soon as it is resolved."

People all over the plane stir in sleepy alarm, but the flight attendants hurry and quiet them.

And then the floor lurches deeply. I lose my stomach and gasp out loud with a few others who are awake enough to know what's happening. A stewardess calls out to everyone that we'll be dropping through a mild storm and will experience some turbulence, but not to worry. Not to worry my ass.The Japanese woman next to me stirs and mutters to her husband. The plane tilts back and forth and it takes only a few moments for everyone to realize that the situation is serious. Some start panicking, and the stewardesses do their best to speak over the din of alarmed voices and assure everyone that we're going to be fine.

_We’re going to be fine._ I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the sounds of fear rising throughout the rest of the plane. I grip the armrests and focus on the thrumming of the engines, which was loud and steady before, but seem strained now. It's my imagination. Or it's real and any moment the captain will announce that the engines have failed and we're falling to our deaths.

After an eternity of descending through darkness, the plane finally dips into clouds and hits the real turbulence. Stormy wind catches the wings and lifts and jolts the plane. But apparently there's no real danger yet. Just turbulence from the mild storm, the flight attendants - and Hunter - say. The very mild storm that won't bring down a plane with engine problems. No real danger, my ass.

The woman next to me says something to her husband in Japanese, but I miss most of it. Something about the window. I wrench open my eyes long enough to steal a look. There's nothing through the small oval. Just the same black night as before.

A cabin light flickers in the window. A quick moment then it flickers again, and I realize I'm not looking at the overhead light's reflection. This flicker is smaller and more orange than the cabin lights, and it’s not a reflection at all. It’s outside, far below us in the darkness.

I wait for the flicker to appear again. Land! That island we're landing on - it could be a runway alerting the plane.

Then a thin, red line arcs up through the darkness. An emergency flare. 

“Holy shit!” Hunter exclaims, peering over my shoulder to get a look at the window. “Do you see that? You saw it, right? Oh, holy shit.”

“Calm down," I snap. "It’s a flare.”

The captain's voice breaks out over the speakers again. This time, there's no hiding his panic.

"Stewardesses, please return to your seats and strap in. All passengers assume crash positions and prepare for impact."

_Impact?_ I grab the armrests for dear life and my heart pounds so hard it hurts. Oh God, the engines are failing and we're crashing! People throughout the plane shout in alarm as the plane tilts forward deeply in a sharp decent, then jerks violently. I clamp my mouth shut as a scream leaps into my throat. Oxygen masks shoot down from the ceiling, and I'm vaguely aware of stewardesses calling out through the tangle of arms and shouts as people grab and rip them from the cabin ceiling.

The speaker sounds again and I barely register as it says something about flotation devices under our seats. But no one's listening. The plane shudders deeply, and its sudden shift of gravity sucks me down into my seat with enormous force. Then it releases me even more suddenly and I am weightless, my body rising out of the seat and the belt digging into my gut. The plane sways, up and down, up and down, and I clutch the armrests with all the strength I have. People panic and frantically grab at the dangling masks.

A mask dances violently in front of me, and I can't move to grab it. Panic claws up through my chest and it takes everything in me to wrestle it down. The stewardesses shout over the cries and I strain to hear them. Flotation vests. Put the vests on. In the chaos, I remember nothing about the safety instructions at the beginning of the flight, and I can't see where the vests are. But across the aisle, Hunter reaches under his seat and pulls one out, struggling to hold on to it as the plane quakes and lurches. I follow and reach under to grab at the first thing that feels remotely like a vest, and I yank it free. I fumble with the straps and sling it around my shoulders with shaking hands.

The Japanese lady next to me clutches her vest, hands shaking so hard she can't undo the straps. Her husband sits next to her, eyes squeezed shut and shouting incoherently. The useless fool doesn't even notice as she fumbles with the vest and drops it, then a lurch sends it sliding under the seat in front of us.

No, no, no. That woman is going to die!

A deep instinct leaps up in me, and despite my own panic, I quickly unbuckle my belt and crouch into the tight space between the seat rows. The plane’s shaking throws me against both seats and I steady myself with one hand. With the other, I reach under the seats and wrench out the vinyl fabric. The woman shouts hysterically as I pull the vest over her head. She struggles against it for a moment, then realizes what I'm trying to do and helps me work it onto her torso. As soon as the last buckle goes on, she grasps at herself and pulls the cord. The vest pops out and instantly inflates. No, no! We're not supposed to inflate them yet -

Then something in the atmosphere changes. All the movement in the plane comes to a slow halt, as if suspended in time. I see the Japanese woman’s petrified face, eyes wide with terror and mouth open in a paused cry. In slow motion and all at once, the aisle of seats tip upwards, people open their mouths in screams I can't hear, and gravity releases me.

With a frightening delay, a thunderous crash rips into the cabin and suddenly everything is spinning. The world explodes with images I can't make sense of - bright orange and heat, small, hard things pelting my face, wind whipping my head against the back of the seats, a roaring that sounds like a hundred trains colliding.

And gaping darkness where the front half of the plane was only a moment before.

My breath is gone before I can even gasp.

_I won't feel anything._

It's all I think. We fall for a thousand years, the whirling darkness yawning over me with the painful clarity of a dream. Three rows in front of me, there is no plane. Just a roaring blackness. Waiting to swallow me whole.

And then, with an even slower delay, the plane stops. Everyone shoots forward against their seatbelts, and I'm thrown into the seats ahead of me. The plane sits upright for a long moment. We bob deeply, then everything speeds up to real time. The gaping hole is met with a dark, rushing mass. It roars into the cabin and washes over the seats and hits me like a wall of cement.

The cold water pins me against the seats, and I’m submerged before I have time to breathe or move. Then everything is a muddled hurricane. It’s dark and black and there's bright orange and red light somewhere above me – or below - and the noise is deafening and there are screams and groaning and crunching metal. Panic and desperation claw at me and my only instinct is to kick and thrash and move and _get out_. The heavy water stuns my limbs as I struggle, and my lungs scream at me to find air, to _breathe_. But there isn't any air. Everything writhes in the blackness and I can't even see which way is up and the ocean rages around me and I can't think,_ I can’t think_! Fire tears through my shrieking lungs, and my vision sparks with stars of red and purple.

My hand brushes against my torso, and I suddenly remember my life vest. I frantically fumble for the cord, and yank with all the strength I have. It inflates and I shoot forward. And then I’m suddenly breaking through the surface of the water and into air. I gasp deeply and desperately and my lungs expand with painful relief.

All I can do is thrash around and hyperventilate. My mind is a whirling hurricane of panic as everything hits me all at once. The plane - Oh my God - the plane - I’m in water - the plane crashed - we’re in the ocean - the plane - _I’m in the ocean!_

Hysteria tears at me afresh. Cold spray showers my face and each gulp of air is met with burning salt water. The freezing water shocks my limbs into numb lead. What the hell happened? The entire front half of the plane was gone! Did the engine explode? Did we hit something?

The spinning chaos comes into focus as I thrash around. Scattered chunks of metal burn all around me. The waves roll and dip and churn the pieces angrily, and they drift away from me even as I watch them. Wind whips at my face and water pelts my mouth and eyes, but I can't tell if it's rain or the ocean spray. It's too dark to see beyond the burning scraps of plane.

"Help!" I scream.

But no one responds. I call out again, desperately turning this way and that, trying to see someone, _anyone, _but there's nothing.

There’s no one else in the roiling waves, not a single one of the passengers, or the Japanese lady or that kid Hunter – oh God, what if they didn’t make it out? They’re still in the plane!

“Someone, help!” I scream desperately. My mouth is met with a wave of saltwater and I choke and sputter as I thrash about.

The waves toss me forwards and back as if I weigh nothing, and no matter how I hard I kick, I seem to stay put. I can't turn. For several minutes I just kick and flail, calling out frantically for _someone._ But there’s nothing except the tossing waves. The freezing water zaps my strength, and my arms and legs are already tired from treading. There's nothing for me to hold on to. The burning chunks of plane are too far away, and there's nothing else to grab...it's all water, just endless miles and miles of waves and water....

I can't even cry. Even as I float there, my strength dies with alarming swiftness, and I watch as my body slowly gives up. With a strange sense of disassociation, I gradually stop treading, and the waves roll me up and down and tug me from side to side.

For a long time I just float, waiting. Not sure if I'm letting the ocean try to sink me and end it already, or if I'm letting myself float away into oblivion. There is no future, nothing after this. This is how I die...

I open my eyes.

_Emergency landing._

The plane was going to make an emergency landing.

There's an island nearby. The flare. Someone set off a flare right before we crashed. There's an island close by, so close that we were only minutes away from landing.

A small flame of energy crawls through my dead limbs. If I can get there...The island knew we were coming, they set off a flare for us. Something prickles my mind and I feel like I'm missing a piece of the puzzle, but it gets lost behind a single thought: there's an island. There’s a way to save me! I'm not going to die here in the freezing ocean. I can get there and find someone...there have to be people there if there's a landing strip.

The storm has surprisingly calmed quite a bit, if it's even a storm. The waves aren't rolling so high or deep, but the wind still howls around me. If the sea calms more, maybe I won't drown. My legs dangle heavily in the water, but I kick one pathetically. Then again.

There's darkness in all directions, an endless tossing sea as far as I can see. The hope that just flared up in me smarts with despair. I can't see anything. I can’t see the island - if there is one at all. But the small bit of hope - the hope that I might find safety, that I might live, _Oh God_, please let me live - lodges firmly into my chest and takes hold.

_I'm going to survive. I'm going to make it._

I have no idea how long I've been in the water. The fires from the burning pieces of metal are long gone, but there's a bit of light reflecting off the waves that wasn't there before. Maybe I’m only wishing it.

Exhaustion picks away at my hope despite myself, and I find a deep, heavy sleep pulls at my mind. The water isn’t cold anymore. It splashes against my face like it has no temperature at all. I just need to close my eyes, close them…fall into that deep sleep…the blackness waiting just below…

No! The island. I have to move. My arms are lead, but there’s still a bit of burn in my legs. I laboriously raise my head and look around the water, my vision blurring and defocusing, as if I'm falling asleep. I vaguely make out the horizon against the dark peaks of waves.

And then, I see it. A dark shape, far against the greying horizon. It has no definable shape, just a black mass somewhere beyond the crests of the waves...

There it is again! In the distance, to my left and ahead of me. I focus hard, but can't make it out. My eyes burn from the salt, and I suddenly realize my glasses are gone.

Whatever that shape is, it's all I have. I lean forward and kick my legs slowly towards the dark mass in the distance.

Please let it be an island, _please_ let it be the island...

I struggle in the direction of the shape for an eternity, slowly kicking my feet and flopping my arms in a weak attempt to swim. My strength gradually ebbs away until I only drift. The dark mass ahead of me gets no closer. The sky slowly lightens into grey, and the ocean swells distinctly black against the sky. And the waves lightly pull me up and down, rising and falling gently. As if lulling me to sleep.

Heaviness fogs my mind, and the waves blur with the muddled grey of the morning sky and twist into something I can't see clearly. Something scrapes my foot, the world eases into a deep black, and I know no more.


	2. Damp

Dead is uncomfortable.

There’s just darkness. Cold, hard, and...wet?

I crack open my eyes. A grey, muddled light slowly becomes small, rounded shapes like...rocks.

I blink a few times, then slowly struggle onto my hands and knees. Then I ease myself back onto the ground until I’m sitting. A wave spills into my lap and I watch the murky water swirl and eddy around me. Dank, rocky sand stretches out in front of me and comes to an end under a line of pine trees. Behind me is an endless expanse of grey water.

_Where the hell..._

A deep ache touches my skull and my gut churns with nausea. Dead people don't feel that, do they?

Then it suddenly comes back to me in erratic fragments. The ocean washing over me and pulling me under, tossing waves, a gaping hole, falling, screaming, something burning...the plane...my plane, panic as I swam pathetically towards that dark mass...

The island! I made it to the island.

A warm, overwhelming relief floods me and I press my hands to my mouth. I'm alive. The feeling fills me with such lightness that I can't even cry. The last thing I remember was swimming towards the island. I must have passed out, so how did I even get here? I should have died.

I sit there for a while, trembling, holding on for dear life, trying desperately to chase out the memory of being tossed around by monstrous waves. I'm sitting on solid ground. I didn't drown. _I'm alive._

A gust of wind leaps over the water, and my warm relief immediately gives way to shivers. Wherever I am, the water is freezing and there's already a purple tint in my fingers. I wipe my cheeks and try to pull myself together. Stop it. Get out of the water.

The trees are a few steps away - if I make it to them I can find help. I shakily rise to my feet, then take a step. My legs feel empty and wobbly and my head swims, but I can move. When I've barely gone a few steps, nausea flares up and the ground lurches and bends underneath me. Hours pass - or maybe seconds? - before the spinning slows and I can inch my way up the beach to the trees.

It takes years, but I finally reach a bit of ground where the rocks end and the soil is smoother. Just as I pass the eaves of the trees, my stomach takes a deep turn and my head spins violently. Then I'm somehow on the ground and the world is a fuzzy, swirling mess of green and brown and grey. A small bit of orange and black hovers just beyond my reach, and something in the subconscious part of my brain lights up. But that’s all I register before I pass out.

I fade in and out of consciousness for a long time. Each time I wake up, the world spins and tilts so violently that it throws me back into darkness. But it eventually gets less and less intense, until I blink myself completely awake.

I lay at the base of a tree, nestled in green, stringy undergrowth. My head doesn't spin anymore, but it aches with a steady throb. Directly above me is a dark green canopy of trees, so thick I can't see the sky. Some look deciduous, like the forests up north near Starling City. Some look like pines. Dark moss clings to the trunks, and the fern undergrowth covers the entire ground like a shaggy carpet. Everything is old and overgrown, and quiet.

It's the creepiest place I've ever seen.

I try to sit up again, but I catch something orange and black in the corner of my eye. It's the bit of color I saw before I blacked out, next to my tree. About the size of my hand, with six large petals and long, red stamens poking out from the middle. It's a lily. But it's the weirdest lily I've ever seen - reddish orange petals that fade to black in the middle, like they've been scorched with fire. A few others dot the ground behind this one, some droopy and wilting. I don't even like lilies, but the sight of flowers in a dark forest makes me feel comforted somehow. They're strangely beautiful, and they're alive -

Alive. The word hits me like a ton of bricks, and suddenly the forest is gone and I'm floating in the ocean again right after the crash. Screaming for help and desperately looking for someone, _anyone _else. But I was alone. No one else was in the water with me. Oh God, everyone on the plane... my classmates, that kid Hunter, the Japanese woman sitting next to me, they were all still strapped in their seats when the plane sank. No one else made it out.

Grief chokes me and I cover my face with my hands. They're dead. Everyone, all those people...

My head starts to swim again as hot tears run down my cheeks, and I lie there near the wilting lilies until darkness takes me once more.

\----------///----------

The next time I come to, my stomach twists painfully with hunger. And my throat and mouth are so dry I can barely swallow. I have no idea how long I've been here; hours at least. Maybe even an entire day.

That thought sends a jolt of alarm through me, and I struggle up until I'm sitting. It's still daylight, but I can't stay here. I need to find help. We were going to land on this island, so there’s got to be other people here too. They set off a flare for us, so they'll be looking for survivors. I just have to find them, whoever they are.

The fragrant scent of the black and orange lilies fill my nose and my chest tightens. _Please, let there be other survivors._

Grief fills me, but I swallow it down before it paralyzes me again. No, get up. Find help. 

I shakily stand to my feet. I'm still wearing the orange life vest, which is long deflated, and I'm somehow barefoot. I don't even remember losing my shoes, but it must have happened when I got swept out of the plane. My glasses are gone too, and everything is a fuzzy blur.

There's no way I'm walking through a creepy forest if I can't even see, so I gingerly pick my way back to the shore. My legs shake and my head still aches, but I can move. The beach is covered with slimy dark stones, and it bends and twists dramatically out of sight in both directions. Above the trees juts the tall, blurry shape of a mountain, surrounded by other smaller peaks. What the hell kind of island...

I can't climb over any mountains, but there's probably a dock or something I can find. Staying on the beach is my best bet. I inch along the shoreline, keeping the trees to my right. The rocky soil evens out slightly and the stones become smaller and smoother, but it's only a small mercy. My feet are so numb with cold that I can barely feel them. And there’s no sign of people. I call out for help as I go, but I see and hear nothing.

After only an hour or two of walking, my legs shake so badly that I nearly collapse. Just as I decide to sit down and rest, I notice something. A blurry, whitish shape on the beach some ways away. It lies on the rocky soil, half in the water. From this distance, it almost looks about the size of a human.

Adrenaline races through me and I suddenly feel very cold. If that's a person, there's a chance they're alive, and that means I'm not alone and we have a chance of finding help together.

Cautiously, I croak out, "Hello?"

Waves lap at the shore, swirling around the whitish lump.

"Is someone there?" I say louder. But the lump doesn't move. After a long moment, I decide to be brave and go look. It might not even be a person. It could be debris from the crash, or even just a rock.

I chew my lip, and slowly make my way towards the shape. The fuzzy outlines resolve into something recognizable, and my gut sinks. The white shape becomes a torso, and the black behind it forms a pair of pants. What I thought was just a rock is really a dark-haired head. I can even see two hands start to appear on either side of the shirt. I stop in my tracks and swallow hard.

It is a person, a man. He lies facedown with arms at his side, legs resting partially in the water. I'm close enough to see that his shirt used to be white, but is now dirty and streaked with grey and brown stains. He's absolutely still.

My heart pounds. I cautiously approach him, fighting the urge to turn around and run. "Hello?”

There's no response.

"Sir, are you okay?"

But he doesn't move. He lies facedown in the sand. There's no way he can breathe like that...

My hand shakes and my heart pounds so quickly it hurts. Don’t be dead, please don’t be dead. I reach out and touch his arm. It's cold. I try again, and carefully tug him over onto his back.

And I freeze. It takes me a moment to realize that I'm looking at a face. His skin is a strange, grey color with a blue tint. And it's puffy. Squishy. His lips are purple, his mouth is full of white foam, and his eyes are swollen shut.

Suddenly, I can't feel anything. The body shrinks until it’s far away and hazy, like I'm looking at it through fog. My insides go cold and all I can see is the foam in his mouth and his puffy, puffy eyes....

And I turn and walk away. My heart pounds loudly in my ears and the world spins endlessly, but I feel nothing other than ice in my stomach. I somehow make it back to the tree line and collapse against one of the trunks. I slowly sink to the ground, the hand that touched the dead man tingling until it becomes cold, heavy lead.

I don’t know how long I lean against the tree like that, but when I finally come to my senses, the clouds have cleared a bit and the afternoon sun is out. The dead man’s swollen face...it wasn’t real. It looked like a prop from a cheap horror movie. He must have been on the plane with me... Did he die on the plane, and somehow get swept out before it sank? Or perhaps he made it into the water and tried swimming for his life, but drowned in the waves. Maybe he washed ashore like me, still breathing but unconscious, and maybe he died where he lay.

Hot tears prick the corner of my eyes and I press my face into my hands. I don't want to think about him. I can't. But he lies right there on the beach, only yards away. What do I do? I should try to help him, or bury him, do something - _anything_. I can't just leave him there. But I can barely walk, let alone drag a body anywhere. And I have nothing to bury him with. I can't help him.

But I can't stay here either. I haven’t seen or heard anyone. I have to get help, get somewhere warm, find water. But even more urgent is my feet, which are wrinkled and alarmingly blue. And there are black and purple bruises on my soles and heels. I can't even feel them. Before I go anywhere, I need to cover them. But the only sort of shoes I can get are...

The man on the beach.

Immediately I'm revolted. I can’t take a dead man’s shoes! But what else am I going to do? And...he doesn't need them anymore. The thought makes me sick and I want to throw myself back into the ocean.

Eventually, after arguing with myself and trying to work up the courage, I climb to my feet and make my way back to the shore, where the man is once again just a white blur against the grey water. My insides squirm violently.

It takes several more minutes of hesitation before I approach him and work out how to remove his shoes, which are black loafers. There's no way those would help me on a mountainous island. But they're better than nothing. I take a deep breath and force my shaking hands to obey me. Very slowly, very carefully, I take a step or two into the water, and awkwardly work one shoe off. The waterlogged leather is flimsy and peeling off the soles, and falls apart as soon as I try to slip my own foot inside.

Fine, no shoes. My only other option is to wrap my feet with his clothing. There's no way I'm touching his pants, so that leaves his shirt. Taking a dead man's shoes is one thing, but pulling an entire shirt off his body is another. But I'm numb - from the cold or just the shock of it all - and I decide to just do it. To my horror, chunks of soggy skin come off when I tug the shirt over his torso and head. I gag and stop to vomit on the rocky sand, and I takes everything I have not to run away again. I somehow manage to stay, but that image of skin coming off his body like mush will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Weak and lightheaded, I drag the dead man's shirt to the water, then scrub the crap out of it against the rough sand, trying to remove every single trace of him. I almost scrub it thin, but I still can't erase the image of his white, soggy flesh clinging to the fabric and I almost lose my nerve again.

Once the shirt is washed as best as I can get it in the murky water, I wring it out until my hands ache, and awkwardly rip it into two uneven pieces. I wrap a piece tightly around each foot and knot them, and then tuck the knots into the fabric so they stay put.

Once the job is finished, I stand and look at the dead, now shirtless man. The sight of his soggy white flesh makes my insides feel frozen and hot all at once. I can't just leave him there. I can't move him or bury him, or even give any sort of proper respects. But he was person, and he had a life. And now he's dead.

So I do the only thing I can. I roll nearby rocks onto his body and cover as much of him as I can. I don't look at his face. When I'm done, there's nothing left of him but a mound of slimy stones. It's a poor burial, but it's better than nothing. I don't know what to say, and I'm too numb to cry.

Thank you, dead man, Whoever you are. You were only trying to fly to Japan, maybe to visit a friend, or return home from a business trip in Starling City, or to see your family. Maybe you were alone and looking to start a new life. You weren't planning to die on that plane. But you did. No one will ever know what happened to you, or that you could have made it to the island. You could have survived. But your shirt will save a girl's feet. So...thank you.

I walk away. And despite myself, my feet feel a little better.


	3. Cowl

Just as my throat gets too dry to even swallow, I stumble across a stream draining into the ocean. It's clear and frigid, and it's the most beautiful thing in the world. I sit by it for a long time, gulping icy water from cupped hands and scrubbing the crusty saltwater from my skin. How far have I even walked...two miles? Three or four? It’s impossible to tell from the wild and erratic coastline, which looks like it was drunkenly hacked out of the ocean with a knife.

With my thirst gone, sharp pangs of hunger leap up and claw angrily at my stomach. I feel like I haven’t eaten in weeks, like if I don’t get food soon my stomach will rip itself into pieces. But I was only unconscious for a few hours...maybe a day. I can’t be this hungry already.

As I wonder whether to keep trying the coastline or just stay put by water - there’s a squawking sound deep in the trees to my right, so faint I almost miss it. Birds!

My gut twists with ravenous knots, and I have a wild impulse to find them. I’ve never hunted anything before, much less _birds_, but I haven't seen anything remotely edible yet. Not even plants. But birds, I can eat...

Leaving the beach is the last thing I should do - someone’s bound to find me if I stay put. But who knows how long that’ll be? It could be days... I wouldn't go far into the woods, just enough to find the birds and catch one, and then I'll come straight back.

Eventually my frantic stomach wins out, and I leave the safety of the beach. The light dims dramatically only a few steps past the forest eaves, and the sound of waves drops to a muffled lull. Following the chattering squawks, I look back every few steps to make sure I can still see the way to the beach. It’s hard to guess where I’m going through the tightly packed trees, but I inch forward. The padding on my feet dulls any noise I make, and I must be quieter than I thought because I round the corner of a large boulder and suddenly I'm in the middle of a flock of birds. There's a storm of shrieks and flapping and feathers, and the birds scatter.

I duck and cover my head, but they're already fluttering up into the tall branches and out of reach. In moments they're all gone, screaming bloody murder at the intruder from their perches. My heart falls and my stomach growls loudly in complaint. Then frantic movement on the ground catches my attention. One of the smaller birds scurries away, pathetically flapping its stubby wings. It must be a baby, too young to fly. Instinct kicks in and I chase the brown, flapping ball through the trees. Exhausted and grinding my teeth with every step I take on my bruised feet, I get close enough to grab at it, and somehow, _miraculously_, it ends up shrieking and twisting in my hands.

I stand panting for a moment. Did I just chase a bird...and catch it? It's a small grouse of some sort, speckled brown and grey with beady eyes. It'll probably make at least one decent meal.

But how...do I kill it?

I imagine James's face - beaming at the little birdy his sister caught, eyes lighting with delight as he reaches out to pet it - and my gut sinks. How can I kill it? It's only a baby...

My stomach nearly rips itself to shreds with ravenous desperation. I grit my teeth. No. I’m starving, and it's just a bird. But that doesn't ease the painful tug at my heart. I stand there for a moment wondering how to do this. I have nothing to kill it with. I could hit it with a rock until it dies, but the thought of killing it so violently makes my stomach turn. After looking around for a bit, I finally decide to just break its neck.

I take the bird's tiny head in one hand, and it squawks and tries to wriggle out of my grasp. _You have to do this. You need to eat. _Even if it's just a baby. I squeeze my eyes shut and twist quickly.

The bird lets out a pitiful squeak, then goes limp.

A lump rises in my throat. I killed it. A baby. The tug at my heart deepens and I somehow feel defeated.

But now I have a different problem. For the first time in several minutes, I get a good look around me. I don't recognize any of the towering trees. I can't even tell which direction I came from, or where the beach is. The air is so dead and quiet that there's no sound of the ocean.

My heart pounds and I search the ground, clutching the dead bird to my chest and trying to find a footprint or broken branch or anything showing me which way I came. But every direction looks the same with my blurry sight.

I never should have left the beach! What if I can't ever find my way back?

Hunger comes back to remind me that I haven't eaten yet. My mind is muddled with panic and hunger, and I can't make any rational decision. I have to take the edge off my hunger, and maybe I can think better.

I hold the bird in my hands and wonder how I'm going to eat it, and I try not to imagine all the diseases on its dirty, ruffled feathers. 

I gather sticks and leaves, then spend what I think is two hours trying to light a pitiful little fire. I first try rubbing two sticks together; that only leaves my hands chaffed and aching. Then I try quickly scraping one stick against another on the ground. Again, nothing. Knocking two stones against each other doesn't work either.

Delirious from hunger and emotional stress and exhaustion, I eventually give up, I have to eat the bird raw.

Fighting back tears of frustration, I pluck feathers off its breast, which takes an eternity. The feathers are small and grimy and leave a sticky film on my fingertips. And the curt, ripping sound each time I grab a handful makes my insides feel like mush. By the time I've gotten even half of the feathers off, the light fades and the temperature drops, and I just want it to be over. No meal should be worth this much.

Once I clear a patch of skin, I steel myself, ignore the bird's grey, bumpy flesh and tiny gross feathers stuck to it, raise it to my lips, close my eyes, and bite down.

The texture of the cold skin and warm, squishy innards bursting onto my tongue is too much. I drop the bird and spit out the mouthful, gagging. The nausea I've been battling finally wins out and I vomit.

After a while of dry heaving and tears trailing down my cheeks, I'm emotionally spent enough to try again. The second and third bites aren't any easier to take, and swallowing is even worse. It slides down my throat like sticky goo, and the taste is worse. I can only swallow a few more bites of the raw bird before I give up. I throw it far away into the undergrowth, then curl up into a ball on the ground.

That was the worst - and most disgusting - meal I've ever had. All that work for nothing.

By now the sun has set, and the light is already blue with oncoming night. There's no shelter, aside from the looming trees nearby. The thought of sleeping in this creepy forest makes me tremble, but what else can I do? I find a small dip in the ground next to a large bush. It's not much for shelter, but it's better than sleeping exposed on the forest floor. I gather fallen branches around me as a covering, curl into a miserable ball, and wait for sleep to find me.

Despite my exhaustion, it takes a long time. The forest is alarmingly quiet. No birds, no insects, not even wind rustling the trees. Just dead quiet. And there's a heaviness in the air that makes my skin prickle, like the trees are watching me. No matter how closely I hide underneath the branches, I still feel exposed.

Eventually I fall into a restless sleep, and I spend the night in a state of half sleep, half dreaming, the bitter night air going right through my bones. And I vow to learn to light a fire tomorrow if it's the last thing I do.

\----------///----------

When I wake the next morning, I'm stiff with cold and no more rested than I was the day before.

A lump rises in my throat. I've been here at least one full day now, maybe even two. Japan was a mistake. I couldn't have known the plane would crash, but I never wanted to go in the first place. I should have just found an internship in Central City, or even in Starling City if I wanted to be away from home. There was no need for me to leave home and ‘find myself.’ It was stupid, _stupid_. I haven't seen any sign of people, either. But there has to be people. We were going to land here, they set off a flare. A bit of warmth stirs in my veins. I'll find them, wherever they are. They'll alert the mainland or someone, and they'll take me home. And I'll never set foot on a plane again. I'm getting off this island, whatever it takes.

I laboriously get up and squint at my surroundings. I'm in a sort of a valley; the forest floor juts up at a steep angle on either side of me, and the valley floor twists and turns sharply in both directions. If I follow this valley, I might find water. And hopefully that’ll lead straight to people. 

I retighten the wraps on my feet, and a pang fills my gut when I see them filthy with dirt...and blood. The valley floor to my left tilts downwards a little, so I decide to follow that. The forest is still quiet, and I walk softly, enormously grateful for the padding on my feet and trying not to think about the dead man on the beach. I don't dare call out for help. There's something sinister about this forest...it's dark and shadowy, but more than that, it's watchful. The hairs on the back of my neck raise on end, but I don't see or hear anything.

After an hour or two, the valley mellows out into flatter ground and I follow a twisty stream along the bottom.

Squinting at the ground and watching my feet, I turn a corner and almost step on a long, black shape. Startled, I gasp and do a little backwards hop to avoid it. The black lump at my feet looks immediately wrong. It doesn’t move, and it's roughly the size and shape of -

I freeze.

Lying in front of me is a man. Dressed in black from head to toe, he lies sprawled face-first on the ground, like he fell running. A black ski mask completely covers his head and he wears a utility vest and belt. And lying by his side, clasped in a limp hand, is an assault rifle.

Every instinct in me screams to run away, and I take a few stumbling steps back. The man on the beach was enough. I don't want any more death. And this is definitely not a crash survivor. I duck behind a tree, shaking too much to get out any sound. But it's not the sight of another body that makes me shake with fear.

It's the arrow sticking out of his back.

A long, light brown shaft with striped, brown and grey feathered veins on the end. It sticks out from between his shoulder blades, right where I imagine his spine is.

There are other people here! I knew it, there _had_ to be. But this revelation doesn't bring me joy or relief. This man was killed. He might have been dead for days or weeks. Or only hours...maybe even minutes. Who was he? I can't see his face or tell how old he is, and I don't have the courage to take off his mask. What on earth happened? If there were other people like this man, all dressed in black with masks...what would they do if they found me?

The thought makes me sick with dread. I peek out from my tree, but the forest is silent. When nothing happens, I come all the way out and inch towards the man.

I reach out a slow, cautious hand towards the arrow. My fingers brush the feathery tips, and I realize they look a lot like the grouse’s feathers. I touch the shaft, then give it a slight tug, not sure what I'm expecting. The arrow, lodged firmly in his back, doesn't budge.

I stand there for a while, not sure what to do next. I’m in danger if I stay here. What if the killer is still around?

That thought snaps me out of it and I instantly let go of the arrow. If the killer is nearby, he could be watching me. He could be aiming a bow and arrow right at me. The hairs on my neck prickle, and the oppressive silence in the forest seems more alarming than ever. Get away _now_.

A shout somewhere ahead breaks the silence, followed by another, then another. Male voices. Speaking quickly, and angrily. 

I turn and run. There's a boulder halfway up a nearby slope and I bolt to it and crouch down behind it. I don't dare peek around the edge to see if the men are coming this way.

"Look there!"

My heart leaps into my mouth and I clamp my hands over my face.

The sound of running feet comes close, then stops.

"Shit, it's Abel."

"I'm going to kill that son of a bitch."

"Black Two. We found sign of him near the southeastern peninsula."

There's a pause, then an electronic burst of static. "Very good. Pursue as needed. Bring him in alive."

"Scout into the valley! He can't be far."

More shuffling and a few comments I can't make out, and the men run again. The crouch makes my legs burn but I don't even twitch. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for them to shout that they've seen me or stumble right into my spot. The thudding of their feet comes alarmingly close, passes, then fades as they run into the valley I was in only minutes ago.

I peek over the edge of the boulder. Four dark shapes run quickly through the trees. They're all dressed in black and wear masks over their faces, just like the dead man. And they carry guns.

I duck back down and wait for what seems like hours. They almost look like soldiers. What’s a military doing here? Is this island a military-owned base?

Once the patrol vanishes and the forest returns to dead silence, I slowly peek around the boulder again. Not a soul in sight. I creep out from my hiding spot, now more than ever trying to be quiet. Maybe they were just soldiers. Maybe if they saw me lost in the woods they'd help me. But something about them sends chills down my spine. Why would they wear masks?

I look at the body on the ground, and it seems strange - and heartless - to just leave their friend there. Didn't they want to take the body back with them? But maybe it’s not that kind of a group.

I turn and run in the opposite direction of the patrol, trying to step in spots on the ground with no leaves or undergrowth. The forest is far too quiet. And given the sudden turn of events, I don’t want to be found anymore. I have no idea where to go, only that I need to get far away. I make my way through the trees, trying to keep to the shadows and dramatic curves of the land. I almost see a dark shape occasionally darting behind trees. Always behind me, and just beyond my sight. But whenever I stop to look, there’s nothing.

It isn’t long before I'm stumbling with exhaustion, and I stop to catch my breath against a tree. There's a noticeable shift and the air turns frigid, piercing deep into my bones. Then rain starts up. Small, piercing droplets that feel like ice. Shaking, I wrap my arms around my chest and slink down to the ground in despair. I'm on a deserted island that isn't deserted at all. But I don't even dare ask the people here for help. I'm never going to see my family again. I'm going to die here.

As I sit there panting and shivering, my skin prickles.

I look up, then notice something that makes my heart stop. There’s something standing in the trees a stone's throw away. But even from here I can tell it's not a tree.

I don't move. I don't even dare squint.

The man watching me doesn’t move either.

My heart pounds so loudly in my chest I'm sure he can hear it.

For a long time, neither the stranger nor I move. Then, he takes a slow step towards me.

I leap to my feet. "Who’s there?"

The panic in my voice stops him. He stares at me, then raises a hand palm out, as if to calm me. He takes a few more steps and then comes into focus. He's Chinese, with a long, thin beard and shoulder-length hair. His clothing is dark green, blending into the forest background. On his head is a pointed green hood, and sticking out from behind his back are the feathered brown and grey veins of arrows. And in his hand is a large, black bow.

The same arrows as the one in the dead man. He's the killer.

My insides go cold. "Who are you?"

He doesn’t respond. There's a deep frown between his brows, but I can't read his face. He might be curious, he might be angry. But I don’t move, heart pounding, waiting for him to string up an arrow and shoot me.

But instead, he does something surprising. He raises his bow out to his side, then slowly lowers it to the ground. He slides the quiver of arrows off his back, then removes his outer jacket to reveal a dark green, sleeveless vest. Then he does something even more surprising.

He throws the jacket at me.

Startled, I barely catch it. The jacket is a heavy, coated cotton stained from the elements. The man is roughly my height, and the jacket looks like it would fit me.

I look back up at him, not sure if I should be afraid or confused. He says nothing, but - still making slow, careful movements - pantomimes putting the jacket on. I watch him stupidly for a moment, then he repeats the motion, this time more emphatically.

He...wants me to put on his jacket?

I swallow. “Why?”

It occurs to me that he might not speak English.

He points at the jacket. I don’t move. He repeats his motion again with more urgency. _Put the jacket on._

Shaking with cold and too stunned to do much else, I awkwardly unbuckle my life vest and slide it off. I work his jacket over my own grey one, keeping an eye on him the entire time. The rough fabric feels heavy, but the pressure is somehow comforting and I already feel a little less cold. It smells strange, like nature and dirt, but it also has a faint spice, the human scent of a stranger. Why would he give a strange girl his coat? This…killer?

As soon as I put it on, his head snaps up and he looks behind him. He’s motionless, staring at something beyond my sight. Then he quickly turns back and whispers a single, harsh word.

“Run.”

He crouches down and slides the quiver back over his shoulder, grabs his bow, and bounds off through the woods, melting into the trees and vanishing.

What…the hell.

I stand there, trying to wrap my head around what just happened. All around me is the pitter patter of rain, and for a moment I just let the feeling of the strange jacket envelope me. Then the stranger's warning sinks in.

_Run._

I nervously search the forest for any sign that someone else is here. But there’s nothing.

Just then, a cracking sound goes off somewhere in distance, followed by a mechanical _rat-tat-tat-tat._ A machine gun.

I run.

I don’t know where to go, so I hurry in the opposite direction of the gunfire and hope it’s enough. Moments later, shouts echo somewhere behind me. I pick up my pace and run faster. My lungs burn and I stumble and trip, but the urgency in the Chinese man’s voice spurs me on.

Once the voices fade away, I stop to catch my breath. It’s freezing, and I despite myself I’m thankful for the jacket.

As I stand there, something makes my spine prickle. The forest is dead silent. But not like the quiet of before, like something was staring at me from under branches and behind rocks. This silence is tense and heavy, ready to snap. Not even the leaves move.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and terror roots me to the ground.

_Run._

I turn around and jump out of my skin.

Towering over me is an enormous man. Dressed in all in black and holding a sword. Covering his entire head is a mask, but not like the patrol’s. This cowl is black and white, with no mouth and two eyes drawn into an angry, cartoonish scowl.

He raises the sword and swings it down right at my head.

And I scream.


	4. Purgatory

When I come to, I'm lying on the floor of a truck. I can feel the vehicle humming as it jolts and bumps over the ground. A heavy sack covers my head, and my hands are tied in front of me.

It takes a few moments for my head to stop spinning, and then everything rushes back to me. It all happened too fast. One moment I was staring up into a white and black scowling face, and the next I was running. Then something hard knocked the back of my head, the ground rushed towards me, and everything went black.

Now I'm tied up in a truck going God knows where.

My heart pounds so hard it hurts and I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been. But I don't dare move. There’s a boot digging into my gut and another pressed against my knee. I slowly and cautiously lift my head.

"Head down."

I duck back down. A thousand questions fly through my head and I try to find my voice.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask nervously.

A boot presses sharply into my back.

"Quiet, girl."

This is just a mistake. They don't know I'm a survivor of the crash. I swallow hard and try again. "I'm from the crash. I got lost. Please, I'm tryi-"

The boot digs harder into my spine.

_"Quiet."_

I shut up.

Where are they taking me? To the edge of a cliff to toss me over, or to their base, to an airfield where they would fly me home... The thought sparks a tiny bit of hope in my chest, but it quickly dies. The masked man had a sword, the Chinese man had a bow and arrow, everyone else wears masks and carry rifles. And now they have a young woman tied up and completely at their mercy. Being killed is the least of my worries.

I'm too afraid to cry.

The truck drives on for forever, and my captors don't speak again. Every bump and dip in the road send me bouncing, and occasionally I get a rough nudge in the back or gut for my trouble. A thousand different ways to escape run through my head, but I'm tied up; there's no way I'd make it anywhere.

Eventually the truck comes to a stop. There's jostling and movement in the seats around me, and someone grabs my tied hands and hauls me up. I stumble out of the truck, still blindfolded, and struggle to find my feet. A strong hand grips my right arm, someone else grabs the left, then they half march, half drag me across the ground. I trip along with them, too weak and nervous to ask where they're taking me.

Then we stop. There's quick scuffling, and I'm shoved forward. I take a few stumbling steps onto a material that feels like...canvas? The air suddenly feels close and all sound is muffled, like I've just stepped into a small room. I hear the rumbling of one - no, two - trucks, and indistinct shuffling. And another sound that makes my insides squirm: voices. People outside speaking to each other. I can't make out the words, but they sound business-like and emotionless.

For a moment nothing happens, then there's a rustling behind me, and I'm suddenly shoved backwards. I gasp as I lose my balance, but my fall is broken by a hard, metal chair.

"There's no need for that."

Someone yanks the hood off my head, and I blink as my surroundings melt into focus. I'm in a wide military tent of grey canvas. Crates and boxes of various supplies line the walls, and the floor is covered with the same canvas as the walls. The entrance behind me is just webbing lashed together to form a crude opening. A large table sits in front of me, serving as a makeshift desk. Behind it are files and cabinets, and even a small refrigerator.

Standing in front of the desk is a tall, thin man with neatly combed hair. He's dressed in black like the patrol, but he wears no mask, and his uniform is clean and trim. He clasps his hands behind his back and narrows his eyes at me, taking in my disheveled state. His gaze flicks down to my chest, and I realize he's looking at the green jacket I'm still wearing. The one the Chinese man threw at me.

The two men who dragged me in stand behind me with rifles against their shoulders. He nods over my shoulder at them and says with a crisp British accent, "You may leave."

The two masked soldiers leave without another word. The tent flap falls closed behind them, leaving me alone with the British man. He eyes me warily.

"I would apologize for my men's treatment of you," he says, "but considering the circumstances, I don't find it uncalled for."

I stare at him.

His voice is posh and surprisingly soft. He watches me with a pair of icy blue eyes set in a wide, square face, and his lips are stiff - with British propriety or just impatience, I can't tell. He might look almost friendly in other circumstances. But here, I’m not sure what to make of him. A hundred questions fly through my head, but I can only manage one.

"Who are you?"

He raises an eyebrow. “I am Edward Fyers, the leader of this operation. Although, I assume you already knew that.”

I blink. What on earth does that mean?

He watches me coolly. "The question is, who are you?"

I fumble for the words sticking in my dry throat. “M-my name is Malin Levine.”

"Malin? Quite a unique name." His expression doesn't change. "What are you doing on this island, Malin?"

"My plane..." I swallow, fiercely wishing for a glass of water. "My plane crashed...and I got lost here..."

Tears well up in my eyes and I stubbornly blink them away. No, I can’t break now.

The news doesn’t seem to surprise Fyers. "Ah, yes. We saw the results of that unfortunate incident. You being a survivor is surely no coincidence."

I'm not sure how to take that, and unease seeps into my gut. “Where am I? What is this place?”

He fixes me with a shrewd look, the ghost of a smile pricking his lips.

“Surely you know?”

I’m at a loss for words. There’s an accusation somewhere in his words, but I don’t know what it is. Fear begins to crawl up my throat again, and I anxiously swallow it away.

“No.” I shake my head earnestly. Then feeling the need to clarify, I quickly add, “It was dark when we crashed. I didn’t see where we were.”

He studies me calmly, as if sizing me up. He seems to have a debate with himself, then smooths it over. "You're on the island of Lian Yu, located some thousands of kilometers east of China. It's home to a military prison base, one - it seems - you've unfortunately stumbled into.” He ambles to his desk and lightly touches various documents with his fingertips. His hand stops to rest on one.

“Equally unfortunately,” he continues, “one of our prisoners escaped two weeks ago. We've been searching for him." He picks up the paper and holds it out for me to see, and despite my blurry vision I can tell it’s a photograph. A headshot of an Asian man in military uniform.

Fyers watches me carefully. "He goes by the name Yao Fei. Perhaps you've seen him?”

I’m still trying to get my bearings. A _prison_ island! How on earth did I manage to land on a prison island? I shake my head no.

Fyers's expression doesn't change, but the corners of his mouth tighten. "I find that hard to believe, Miss Levine, seeing as you are wearing his tunic."

My stomach drops, and I look down at the green jacket. The Chinese man in the forest with the bow and arrows. The one who followed me for God knows how long then gave me his jacket. The photo is blurry and I can’t see any clear facial features, but it must be him. He was a _prisoner_?

"This man is a dangerous criminal, a murderer. He escaped, and it's my responsibility to recapture him."

My gut is in knots now, and my heart hammers in my chest. I was steps away from a _murderer_. I knew he killed that soldier back in the forest, but how many other people has he killed?

Edward Fyers’s mouth twitches and he says with a clear edge in his voice, "So I'll ask again, where did you meet him?"

Something in the way he says it sets a cold feeling in my stomach. Like the feeling I got when I saw the dead man on the beach.

"I didn't..." I fumble for words. "I didn't meet him. He found me in the forest and gave me his...tunic." I pause, but Fyers doesn’t look satisfied. "He didn't say anything. He just threw it at me, then ran off..."

I almost say, _when he heard your men,_ but something stops me. That creepy masked man caught me only minutes after I saw Yao Fei, but Fyers doesn’t seem to know that. Maybe they didn’t know how close they came to catching him.

Fyers watches me intensely and quietly, and I get the impression of a panther lying in wait. Carefully flicking its tail, watching its prey take a few unknowing steps closer. And suddenly, I don’t want any more to do with this. I don’t want to know anything about this island, I just want to leave.

"That’s all that happened," I say. "I was lost...I was just trying to find help. I don't want any trouble, I just want to go home. Please, can you contact the mainland? Or anyone?" I blink away hot tears. "I just want to go home.”

Fyers still doesn't respond. But I catch a strange glint in his eyes. He straightens, putting the picture face-down on his desk and folds his hands in front of him. “Alright, Miss Levine, I’ll make a deal with you. Tell me everything you know about Yao Fei, where you saw him last, any words spoken between you, and his present whereabouts...and I’ll arrange passage home for you.”

He’ll send me home! Relief floods me and tears well up. If he can send me home…I have no idea where Yao Fei is, but he was right there when the patrol found me. I just have to tell Fyers how close Yao Fei was and they can go from there.

Fyers reads the hope in my face and leans forward. “I only have to give the command, and a boat will be waiting for you within the hour. All I need is your cooperation. Yao Fei is a dangerous criminal who must be apprehended, for both our safety, and yours.”

An hour. I could go home in an _hour_. The thought of getting away from this place, of getting warm clothes and food and shoes, and of going home and seeing my family...I want nothing more than to take the offer. But I can’t shake the feeling in my stomach. There’s something unsettling about Fyers’ eyes, and something about the encounter with Yao Fei nags at me.

He was frightening enough with his bow and arrow and expressionless face, but if he was a dangerous criminal...why did he help me? He could have easily killed me, or worse. Instead, he showed kindness. Something inside me digs in my heels at betraying someone who helped me. I didn't even know Yao Fei’s name when I met him - but he saw a girl shivering in the forest and gave her his jacket.

I don’t know anything about Edward Fyers. I don’t have any reason to distrust him, and despite everything, his questioning is fair. He's just doing his job. But there’s something else, something I’m missing.

I look into his eyes, and then it hits me.

They're cold. Here I am, a lone woman, helpless, afraid, hundreds of miles from home, and barely clinging to survival. And his eyes are cold.

He's not going to keep his word.

I swallow carefully and say with a quiet voice, "I don't know anything. I told you everything that happened."

Fyers watches me with an eerie calmness, looking more than ever like a predatory cat. Then he looks at something over my shoulder and raises his eyebrows.

"Well, what do you think?"

I follow his gaze and jump. Standing in the tent doorway is the large, masked man. The one with the black and white scowl. I didn't even hear him come in. He looks as terrifying in the tent as he did in the forest, standing well over six feet tall and probably twice my weight. I can see the bright glint of his eyes through the mask's holes, and they make me shrivel.

"You know them best," Fyers continues, as if I wasn't there. "Is she one of them?”

I look back and forth between them, now entirely alarmed.

“One of what?” I ask in a small voice.

The masked man looks down at me slowly, taking every bit of me in. I bear his gaze with a pounding heart, hoping to God that he doesn't see something that's not there. _I'm not a threat, I don't know Yao Fei. I don't want anything to do with this. I just want to go home._

But I don’t convince him. He lifts his head and the air in the room shifts. Fyers - who seems to understand exactly what the shift means - puts his hands behind his back and says curtly, "I'll leave you to it, then."

Before I can say anything, the masked man crosses the room in two strides. I flinch back as he grabs a handful of my hair, and I’m suddenly hurtling to the canvas-covered floor. Then I get a swift kick in the thigh. My leg explodes with shock and the limb goes numb. I can only manage a stunned yelp as I instinctively throw my tied hands up to cover my face. But he isn't done with me. He grabs my hair again and hauls me to my feet, this time landing a quick, expert punch to my gut. The air rushes out of my lungs, and I gasp breathlessly.

My blood pounding with panic, I grip the hand holding my hair and dig my nails into the wrist as hard as I can, then hit him over and over, the only thought on my mind to make him let go. But his hold stays strong. He whips my head back and throws me onto the ground again. Still gasping and reeling from the impact to my gut and thigh, I struggle to find footing, but collapse.

"That's enough," Fyers says.

I lie wheezing on the ground. My gut feels like a vacuum, where all air is being sucked out but not coming in, and my thigh burns with a focused pain that sears all the way to the bone. Every instinct in me screams to get up and run away. But the shock of being hit stuns me and I can't move.

Fyers presses his mouth into a thin line. "She's either very clever, or she is who she says. Put her with the other one. We'll see how well her resolve holds up."

_Put her with the other one._ No, don't put me anywhere...

"Don't..." is all I can whimper before the masked man hauls me to my feet with an impossibly strong grip, and I'm marched out of the tent without another word.

We step into the light, and I blink. A military camp with a dozen or so tents bustles around me, black-clothed soldiers milling about between the tents, range rovers, and crates and crates of unidentifiable contents. At the far side of camp against the eaves of the forest is a row of cages. They sit under a long pavilion with a slanting, metal roof. They're spaced about five feet apart, each one sitting on a platform waist high. They look just big enough to kneel in, but too small to stand up or lie down in. Two mercenaries guard the cells, slowly patrolling up and down the line, holding large rifles against their chests.

The masked man marches me across the camp to this row of cells, ignoring my stumbling and wheezing. He stops at the last cage, where a guard opens it and I’m roughly shoved in. The door shuts with a cold clang, and the terrifying, scowling-masked man stands with one hand on the bars. He watches me with eerie silence, and I can do nothing but hold his gaze, tears now running down my cheeks despite myself.

In the cell next to me, a heavily bearded man with dark hair and olive skin watches with quiet interest. The masked freak turns to give him a long look, then releases his hand on the bars and walks away. I’m left sitting in the cell, open to the elements, with nothing but a slanting metal slab and a single, dull lamp above me.

I sit in silence, my breath coming back and my head whirling. The beating had taken _seconds_. The depth of my situation suddenly crashes down on me and my chest constricts. I survive a plane crash in the ocean, only to be caught and beaten and thrown into a cage. A cage! Like an animal, like a prisoner in some ancient, barbaric world. I was just trying to go home...

I can't bend my right leg because of the pain, so I pull my left in and hug it closely. Burying my head in my arms to hide from the other prisoner, I swallow and let the tears fall freely.

\----------///----------

I have no idea how long I sit like that, forehead pressed against my knee, gasping and sniffing quietly. The fire in my thigh melts to a throbbing ache and my breathing eventually returns to normal. But the tight pain in my chest doesn't go away.

After a while, when I've regained a bit of composure, I dare to lift my head and look at my surroundings. The camp mills about with soldiers, and although I hear conversations happen, there is a sense of solemn routine as they go about their duties. Almost all carry rifles or a gun of some sort. They’re all clothed head to toe in black, and all wear the same black masks with only two slits for eyes. I couldn’t tell them apart if I tried.

I pull my knees to my chest and tuck my chin down in a poor effort to stay warm. The dark green cotton jacket…Yao Fei’s…is heavy, but not overly warm. But it’s better than anything I’ve had in days. And despite everything, I’m grateful for its small kindness.

“You’re a long way from home.”

I jump.

The prisoner next to me, the bearded man, watches me from his cage. He sits against the bars, one leg stretched out and an arm resting on the bent knee of the other.

He doesn’t look like the other mercenaries; his coveralls are grey instead of black, and he looks like he hasn’t had a haircut in months. Why the hell would he want to talk to me? I don't know what to say, and I'm too spent to speak at all. So I don't. I pull the jacket a little closer and turn away from him, resting my chin on my knee. The cold is almost bearable now.

The low, gruff voice tries again. “What brought you to this hell hole, girl?”

This time it's the word 'girl' that gets me. How old does he think I am? I have a young face, but at twenty-five I should have a bit more credibility than 'girl'. The prisoner’s expression hasn't changed. It's hard to tell, but he looks disinterested. Bored even.

Sitting down, he doesn’t look much taller than me, but there’s something commanding about his presence. A fiery look in his eye that makes me think of a wild animal.

After a few moments, I realize he had an accent. It almost sounded British, but I replay his words in my head. No, not British. Australian. What on earth is an Australian doing here?

I'm silent for a while as I figure out how much I even want to share. I finally lift my head and whisper, "My plane crashed."

He’s quiet for a bit. “Pity.”

I don’t say anything to that, and an awkward silence falls. But obviously neither of us are going anywhere soon, so I might as well try for some answers.

I clear my throat and ask quietly, “What are you in for?”

He doesn’t answer and I wonder if he even heard me, but then he snorts softly through his nose. “None of your damn business.”

Alright, fine. I turn away and lay my head on my crossed arms.

There's another awkward silence, and the sounds of falling night waft over to us. The guards are the only things between the cages and the tree line. We're completely exposed to the elements, and whatever else is out there.

To my surprise - and growing annoyance - my fellow prisoner isn't finished with me.

“What did Fyers want with you?” he asks.

I don't look at him, unnerved by his voice, which is a guttural whisper. He could recite the sappiest love poem and still sound threatening.

“He asked me about a prisoner who escaped.” I reply. “If I had seen him.”

The Australian sits up and leans forward. “And what did you tell him?”

Something in his tone catches my attention. Does...he know Yao Fei?

But before I can reply, two mercs approach the cells. My stomach immediately leaps into knots and I'm terrified that they’ve come for me, but they walk right past me and stop at the man's cage.

“Ready to come out and play, Aussie?” one of them sneers.

One merc opens his cell and drags him out, the other aims his rifle at him. But the Australian doesn't resist. They tie his hands behind his back then march him to the dark tree line across camp, where over a dozen soldiers stand circled near a bonfire. They hoot and holler as the prisoner is brought to them. His guards push him into the middle of the circle, and he stands still. This gathering of soldiers is just beyond my range of sight, and I can see only blurred shapes and colors. But the prisoner's grey coveralls stand out against the black of the mercenaries.

My heart starts pounding as it occurs that this might be an execution. I've already seen two bodies in as many days, I don't think I could handle seeing someone killed right in front of me.

But it's no execution. The soldiers jostle among themselves, prodding and goading each other. Then one steps away from the group and joins the prisoner in the ring. Someone says something, I hear brief laughter, and then the two men are suddenly tangled in a fight. I squint furiously, but all I see is a black shape pummeling the light grey of the Australian with a wooden staff of some sort.

What kind of sick fight club is this? They're making him fight for _sport!_ The Australian's hands are tied behind his back and he has no weapon, no way to fight back. I watch with sick fascination as he takes a few hits, helpless against the unfair barrage.

But it’s no unfair fight. As the soldier’s buddies goad him on, he turns to raise a triumphant fist at them. And the Australian leaps into action. He nimbly darts to the side, out of range of the soldier’s staff. The soldier realizes too late what’s happening and throws a clumsy punch at him, but the Australian twists out of the way. He kicks out one of the merc's legs and rams into him, knocking him clean off his feet. Even over the din of the fight and the shouting, I can hear the flat sound of a body hitting the ground.

The soldiers' tones change from jeering to angry surprise. They shout at their comrade, urging him to get back up and fight. But the Australian doesn't give him a chance. He whips around and kicks the man sharply in the head. The other soldiers don't waste a moment, and two immediately jump in. They struggle with the prisoner from both sides, beating him with their fists and pinning him between them. His knees buckle and he goes down. I can't see him in the jumble of black shapes around the fire and I lose what's happening. Suddenly one of the soldiers drops to the ground, and the jeering gets louder. In the commotion, I notice a black shape with a half white, half black mask standing off to the side, watching silently.

One or two soldiers jump into the fight, then two others jump out. They rotate like this, a few jumping in every now and then, and one or two soldiers leaving the ring, staggering with either pain or exhaustion. They wail on the prisoner, kicking him and beating him with their fists and wooden staffs. Some even have swords. But the Australian doesn't stop coming. He twists and ducks and charges them. And even with my sight, I can see the sheer strength in his charge as he knocks several of the soldiers off their feet. Some collapse to the ground and don’t move again. Even without his hands, he still somehow keeps his head in this horrifically unfair fight.

The scene - as muddled as it is - makes me sick. This is absolutely _barbaric. _And it erases any doubt that this camp is not official military. This is something far worse. My heart sinks as I realize I'm no better off than the Australian. What if they make me do the same thing?

After several rounds of this gladiatorial match, the soldiers grow bored and break up the fight. Two mercs grab the Australian by his arms and drag him back to the cells and shove him in.

"Till next time, Aussie.” They remove his ties, lock the cage, and then just like that, they're gone.

He grunts and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. There are spots of blood on his face – and I don’t even think it’s his.

I'm horrified, but I don't know what to say to him. What could I possibly say after that?

He huffs loudly. "Enjoy the show?"

_No!_ I’ve never seen anything like that, and it makes my guts feel like mush. How can people do that to each other?

"Why did they do that?" I finally ask.

"Fyers and his mercs are in need of entertainment,” he scoffs, pronouncing his words deliberately. “It keeps them sharp."

"What for?" I ask despairingly. "What _is_ all this?"

He shoots me an intense look of disgust. “This is a covert mercenary operation, girl. These guys have a plan, and nothing will stop them from going through with it. Don't expect any mercy." He leans forward and looks me straight in the eye. "This island is no place for a schoolgirl. You’re out of your depths.”

His gaze makes me squirm, but I bristle a bit. I _am_ ignorant and out of my depths, but I’m not stupid.

“I know."

He doesn't seem to hear. “One thing is for certain…you're no fighter. Come tomorrow, Fyers won't have much use for you.” He stretches out on the hard floor of the cell, like he didn't just fight for his life with his hands tied. Like we aren't prisoners in cages. “You’re not getting out of here alive.”

The casualness with which he says it, lying down as if ending a boring conversation…

Dread fills my stomach. How can he say I'm not a fighter? I don't know how to fight like he just did, but if it comes to it, I'll fight for every last inch of my life. And now I know what to expect from these barbaric mercs, I'll be prepared next time.

This stranger doesn't know me. He can't just write me off like that.

I'm not dead yet.


	5. Wintergreen

“How about that? They really did bring in a girl.”

The mercenary rests his gun against his shoulder and cocks his head to one side as he looks at me. A short merc joins him as they take over the morning shift from the night guards. I'm still crouched in the corner of my cell, arms crossed tightly against my chest and knees tucked up against my arms. I had been lightly dozing on and off all night, but now I sit wide awake as the two mercs approach me.

The second guard - the short one - steps right up to my cage. “Holy shit. What’s she doing on the island?”

“Port says she’s one the Aussie shits." The first merc jerks a thumb at the Australian. "Same as him.”

"Is she now?” the short guard eyes me. “That true, sweetheart? You’re one of the baddies?”

I don’t budge. None of the guards have tried to speak to me until now.

The first guard glances around, then edges around the cage to where I'm sitting. "Hey, what’s your name?”

I still don't move, although all my senses are on high alert. Only a few metal bars separate us. What do I do if he tries to touch me...or worse?

“Hey!” He jams the butt of his gun against the cage. “We’re talking to you. Answer.”

I flinch and did my nails into my knees. _Don't answer. _

Shorty rounds the corner to join his buddy. “What if she’s mute?”

“They’re _all_ mute. Look at the mask freak, and this tightwad,” his friend replies, ramming his gun against the Australian's cell. The prisoner moves his head away from the bars, but also doesn’t make a sound. “None of them fucking talk. It’s no wonder they don’t get anything done.”

The Australian watches them with a slight smile.

"Coleman! Torres!"

The two guards jump and step away from the cells. Another mercenary - face covered like the rest of them - glares at them from one of the tents.

"Back to your posts."

Shorty acknowledges him with a nod, and they both shoulder their rifles and go back to patrolling the cages.

To my immense relief, they don't speak to us again. Once they're out of earshot, I release a tense breath and hug my knees close. I'm not even safe in a cage.

“Dumb shits,” the Australian mutters.

I don't look at him, and he doesn't look at me. He hasn't spoken to me since last night, or even acknowledged my existence. Fine by me. I'd rather be ignored than tormented.

But those guards think I'm an Australian too, like him. And also apparently like the creepy masked freak. If those two were on the same side, why was this one in a cell? He must have broken a rule or something. How could Fyers possibly think I'm with either of them? The masked freak wouldn't beat the shit out of me and throw me in a cage if I was on his side. None of it makes sense.

And with the guards constantly patrolling the cages, there's no way to escape. I thought of every possible escape plan last night before I drifted off to sleep, but I don’t know anything about this camp or the island. I can’t even _see._ The only plan I can think of - and just out of sheer desperation - is to run like hell the next time they open my cage. But that would get me killed, just like every other escape I try. My best bet is to convince Fyers that I’m not trouble and to let me go home.

The rest of the morning passes slowly, but I get my chance soon enough. Around midday, the creep with the white and black mask approaches the cages with two mercs. He motions curtly with his hand, and the mercs drag me out and march me back to Fyers’s tent. They seat me in a chair in front of his desk, just like before, except my hands aren’t tied. The two mercs leave again, but this time the masked freak stays. He stands near the entrance, quietly waiting on Fyers.

The British mercenary stands in front of his desk, agitated.

“Miss Levine," he says tersely. "My guards reported that you shared words with the Australian last night but neglected to speak to him today. What did he tell you?”

Of all the things racing through my mind just now, the Australian isn't one of them. And he didn't tell me anything at all. Except that I was out of my depths.

“He just..." I try to get my bearings. "He wanted to know why I’m here. He didn’t really say anything else."

My answer doesn't seem to please him. I jump in before he can accuse me of anything.

“Why did you put me in that cage?" I somehow keep the nervousness out of my voice. "I don't know anything about this place or what's going on. I just want to go home."

That only perturbs him more. “I was testing a theory. But you showed no conclusive evidence to either support or deny it.”

What possible theory could he have about me? I’m not an enemy! I'm about as threatening as a rag doll.

He presses his lips together impatiently. "I must say, you do look rather convincing. It's the wraps on your feet that give you away. A bit on the nose, don’t you think?"

Amidst the fear and confusion, a small bud of anger forms in my chest. Is _no one _going to tell me what's going on?

"What are you talking about?"

His eyes flash. "I don't believe in coincidence, Miss Levine. And I have difficulty believing you are who you say you are.”

He turns and paces behind the desk, looking out at his camp through the webbing flaps of the tent.

“A week ago, we received intelligence that your organization was sending an agent to recover Yao Fei, after the previous two agents failed. Not a mere day later, a commercial airliner claims engine failure and requests to land on this island. Of all the hundreds of islands in this island chain, the plane miraculously finds this one." He pauses to give me a piercing glance. "Five days later, a woman is seen consorting with Yao Fei. And wearing his jacket, no less. You understand what sort of predicament this puts you in."

It takes a moment to put the pieces together. "You think someone sent me here...to rescue Yao Fei?"

He raises his chin.

My mind races wildly and I struggle to find words. "That’s not…that's not why I’m here."

Desperation fills me and I feel like grabbing him and shaking him. How can he think I'm an _agent_ sent to rescue a Chinese prisoner? What did I do to make him think that? Hot tears build and I struggle to keep them down.

“I’m not an agent, I’m an agriculture student. I was going to Japan for a summer internship, and my plane had an engine failure and it crashed. I don’t know how I survived or how I even made it to the island, but I’m _not_ here because someone sent me." The tears start to spill out. "I'm here because my plane crashed and people _died_. I don’t know what’s going on here and I don’t know anything about Yao Fei. I don't want to know. I just want to go home.”

A frown creases Fyers’s brow and his icy eyes narrow.

I repeat my plea. “I don’t want anything to do with this! I just want to go home. If there's any way you can contact the mainland, or search and rescue...Please, I just want to go home.”

His frown deepens. “I'm starting to think so.”

He thinks a moment, then paces again. Neither he or the masked freak say anything and I'm tempted to just jump up and bolt out of the tent. Then Fyers pauses and gives me a curious look.

“Yao Fei’s not one for charity. Why did he give you his jacket?”

I shake my head hopelessly. “I don’t know. He was following me…and it was raining. He didn’t say anything, he just gave it to me.”

“How very interesting,” Fyers says thoughtfully, almost to himself. He stops pacing and his expression changes from irritation to something that resembles hunger. “He saw a shivering young woman wandering the island and sought to help her. Perhaps he still wishes to help you.”

His tone chills me. Yao Fei wouldn't still be following me. If he saw them capture me and take me to the camp, he wouldn’t come anywhere near it. Not for a stranger. Even if he did feel enough pity to give me his jacket.

"This might be worth pursuing," Fyers continues. "You have a debt to pay for the trouble you've caused me."

My heart starts pounding again and I swallow down a wad of fear. "What does that mean?"

But he's already made a decision. He glances up at the masked man behind me. "Wintergreen, same arrangement. But make it more enticing this time. Let's see if we can't convince him to make a move."

The masked man - Wintergreen - hauls me off the chair and I hold my hands up instinctively, dreading more punches and kicks.

Fyers gives me a cold, but eager look. “Whether you’re a member of the Secret Intelligence Service or not, Yao Fei demonstrated a clear interest in you. We can use this to our advantage. You’ve been more help than you realize, Miss Levine.”

And I'm marched out of the tent before I can respond.

Wintergreen pushes me forward with such force that I stumble and trip ahead of him. He doesn't let up and directs me through the maze of military tents to the edge of camp. Soldiers stop and watch as we pass, some pointing at me and calling out to others. Wintergreen stops in front of a large dirt ring lined with boulders and logs for sitting. The sparring ring from last night, the one they made the Australian fight in. Already a crowd of soldiers gather.

Wintergreen shoves me forward into the ring. The mercs holler and hoot as I stumble to catch myself.

Fyers appears at the edge of the ring, face grim and tight. "You have a chance to prove yourself, Miss Levine. The outcome of this exercise depends entirely on you." A few mercenaries snigger knowingly. "Knock the sword from his hand, and you go free."

_Sword?_

There's a soft _shhhnng_ behind me, and I turn to see Wintergreen holding a long sword with a slight curved end. Even with blurry sight, I have no trouble seeing his eyes. They're wild and gleeful.

They're going to make me fight him.

"No, don't!" I plead to Fyers, my voice catching in my throat. "I don't know how to fight."

The grim lines in his face tighten with a slow smile. "Of that, I have no doubt.”

Then something hard strikes my head and my vision flashes white with pain. I stumble back and collapse onto the ground, my head spinning. The sound of hooting and laughter melts together as throbbing fills my ears. My eyes smarting with tears, I struggle to my feet and find Fyers’ starkly white face in the crowd of black masks.

“Please. Don't-”

A silver flash of movement interrupts me, followed by the most intense pinching I've ever felt. I recoil back in shock, then look at my forearm. A bright red slit blooms in the skin, filled an instant later with dark red liquid. I'm too stunned to even cry out. There's another silver flash of movement, and Wintergreen’s sword arcs towards my feet. My senses finally catching up, I hop out of the way, but the blade catches my leg and cuts a swift, clean line down my calf. 

This time I yelp, stumbling to the ground again as my leg shrieks in protest. Wintergreen paces slowly before me, holding his sword out in mock challenge. The soldiers jeer in response.

Head still spinning from the blow, I desperately try to get my bearings. The dirt ring is right up against the trees. I can escape right into the forest if I can just find my feet. I scramble away from Wintergreen and prepare to make a break for it, but he sees it and stalks towards me, angling himself between me and the trees. He gives his sword a couple of practice swings and throws a few feints that make me duck and jump clumsily out of the way. The mercs whoop and shout things at me, but I can't focus on any of it.

Tears stream down my face and I struggle to keep my footing. This is a game. Knock the sword from his hand, and I go free. I can't knock anything from his hand! I couldn't get close if I tried! Wintergreen swings his sword again with a controlled, practiced movement and the sword nicks my shoulder before I can dodge it.

I back away towards the trees. But it’s no use; Wintergreen keeps pace with me and would pounce the second I turned to run. It's all a game, like a cat teasing a frightened mouse. The Australian survived it, but he knows how to fight - hell, he gave them all a run for their money. There’s no way I can ever keep up like that. I can't get the sword away from him, I won't even try.

Suddenly, I know what to do. They want entertainment, but they won’t get it. It's a desperate gamble and I don't have time to think, but my gut screams go with it.

I stop moving and stand still.

Wintergreen swings at my shoulder. I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists, waiting for him to slash me. It's just a feint and the blade slices the empty air above my shoulder. A few soldiers titter in surprise, and I open my eyes.

Wintergreen swings the sword again and this time it gets my shin. The sensation of skin splitting open hits me like a brick wall and I bite my lip to keep from screaming. I just have to stand here and take it, and I take away their fun. If I don't play, there is no game.

Wintergreen tries another feint, then lunges at me and knocks me to the ground. I stay motionless where I collapse, my fists clenched so hard the nails bite my palms. But he's figured out my plan and isn't having it. He yanks me back up to face him, then jabs me with sword hilt. He hits and swings his sword over and over, sometimes nicking me, sometimes shoving me back onto the ground. I clamp my mouth shut so tightly it hurts, and I can't stop the hot tears streaming down my face. But I don't cry out or scream. The heckling turns to angry shouts and one or two of the mercs even encourage me in mock support. Fyers's expression doesn't change.

After an eternity, Wintergreen finally decides he's had enough. He lowers the sword, and with one smooth, quick movement, ducks down and rams the hilt right into the gash on my calf. My leg explodes with pain and this time a mangled scream escapes my lips. I crumple to the ground in shock, the pain paralyzing me.

I lie there on the ground heaving with adrenaline and panic. I refuse to move. If he's going to kill me, kill me. It's no way to fight back, and I don't want to die, _I don't want to die_. But it's the only fight I have.

But there's no killing blow. No dramatic flurry of a sword that cuts my guts open or takes off my head. Wintergreen leans over me and wraps a strong hand around the back of my neck. He pulls me up onto my knees to face Fyers, pins one arm behind my back, then touches the cold steel of his sword to my neck.

Tears stream down my face and I tremble violently. I don't beg. I don't resist. I don't move a muscle.

Fuck you, Edward Fyers.

His mouth tightens, but a cold triumph fills his face. It wasn't entirely what he hoped for, but he still got whatever it was he wanted.

"As I suspected," he announces to his goons. "Wintergreen, I think she's had quite enough."

He steps into the ring close to me and says quietly, "Your troubles are far from over, Miss Levine. But for now, we'll see how well you serve your purpose."

He dismisses the scene with a nod, then the soldiers clear out. Wintergreen removes the sword from my neck, and two guards haul me to my trembling feet. Through eyes blurry with tears, I watch the camp as we march by, and everything is back to normal. As if nothing happened.

The guards march me to my cage, unceremoniously shove me in, toss me a tight roll of bandages, and then leave without so much as a glance at me.

Everything is a whirl of pain, tears, and cold. All the cuts and bruises start to scream at me as the adrenaline fades. And I’m bleeding. The sticky fluid runs down my arm and calf and soaks the back of my shirt, and it’s hot and cold all at once. I shiver violently, and I don’t know if it’s the blood or the cold or the beating.

The camp returns to its bustle of anonymous, terrifying men, and leaves me to wilt in my cage. Fyers knows I'm not an enemy, but it doesn't even matter. They're going to kill me. I'm going to die here.

This time, I break down and cry without bothering to hide it.

The Australian doesn't say a word.


	6. The Chinese Archer

The guards bring Aussie his meal in the evening, but they don’t give me anything. This morning's food was the first full meal I had in days. And it looks like it'll be the only one.

My body aches and stings all over. There's no way to sit or lie down that doesn’t put pressure on at least one wound. The gash on my calf is about six inches long, and by far the worst. The rest are just cuts and nicks.

I unwind the small bandage roll and wrap the wounds carefully. Only my leg still bleeds, the other cuts are already crusty with dried blood.

That barbaric charade in the ring, it was bait. They wanted someone - Yao Fei – to do...what? Come charging in to my rescue? He wouldn’t do anything. He gave me his jacket in the forest, but he also left me there. If he really wanted to help me, he could have led me to safety. Or showed me where to get food, or warned me about Fyers, or _anything_. If he thought I wasn't worth saving in the forest when we were alone, he's not going to risk his life to save me from a locked cage guarded by dozens of mercs.

All of that was for nothing. Wintergreen should have just killed me.

Tears prick my eyes again and I wipe them away. Aussie still hasn't said a word to me, but I don't want him to. He's wrong about me not being a fighter, but I'm a different kind of fighter. Not like him. But my kind of fighting isn't going to keep me alive.

Fyers shows up just before nightfall and walks down the line of cages, hands clasped behind his back as he casually inspects his prisoners. He passes by the Australian's cage and gives him a tight look, but doesn’t say anything. To my relief, he doesn’t say anything to me either. He pauses slightly to look over my cage, but then the inspection is over and he walks back to camp. A taunt. We belong to him and there's nothing we can do about it.

When it's clear that no one else will come bother me, I curl up miserably in the corner of my cell. The patter of rain turns into a steady pour, and I hug the green jacket close. Guards shuffle along the cages miserably, but the camp stays bustling with activity. Night falls, and I slip in and out of an uncomfortable sleep. Because of the loud patter of rain on the tin roof above me, I almost miss the sound when it happens.

A distant rumble on the edge of my dreams startles me awake.

I blink a bit and lift my head, but nothing looks out of place. The tents and various makeshift buildings are lit by lanterns and generators, which throw a yellow glow onto the eaves of the trees. But the forest beyond them is solid black. The Australian doesn't seem alarmed, but he watches the far end of camp with an unnerving intensity.

Then a bright, orange fire leaps into the sky with a deep _whooosh_, burning and cracking with a windy roar. The explosion lights up the treetops over the far side of camp, followed by another rumble. Everyone is silent for a millisecond, then the camp explodes into chaos. Mercs scramble with their weapons and run towards the source of the explosion, followed by the land rovers and military trucks. The camp clears out in moments, leaving only three guards to watch our cells.

_Now_ I’m awake. I sit upright, not sure how afraid I should be. Aussie turns a piercing glance at our guards, and I swear there’s a smile on his lips. They notice and aim their rifles right at us. I freeze, and fiercely wish Aussie doesn’t do something stupid like try to break out. Another explosion – farther away this time – erupts orange and red through the treetops. And with it comes another sound that sends chills down my spine. Screams. The rain picks up to a downpour as if on cue, and camp is empty for a few tense minutes.

Suddenly, a guard slumps to the ground. The merc closest to him whips his rifle up and searches the dark trees. A split second later, his head jerks back and he falls to the ground too. I clap a hand over my mouth as the third guard also goes down to an unseen force. But then through the haze of rain and darkness, I see it - something long and dark sticking out of the second guard's throat, right above his collarbone.

An arrow.

Aussie sees it before I do and leaps into a crouch by the door of his cell. A shadow melts away from the trees and is by his cage in half an instant. He turns his head and I catch a bit of his face.

Yao Fei!

The Chinese man doesn't waste any time. He pulls out a small ring of keys from a pouch on his belt and quickly unlocks the door.

The Australian leaps nimbly out of the cage and immediately checks his surroundings.

"Yao Fei!" He hisses. "I assume that light show is your doing."

"They return soon,” the Chinese man replies.

"We're not going anywhere without weapons," Aussie says.

Yao Fei points to a supply tent near the center of camp, and the Australian sprints to it in no time at all and vanishes under the side flap.

They're going to leave me here!

But before I can panic or even hope, Yao Fei darts to my cage and slips the key into the lock. The light from the cage roof falls onto his hood and throws most of his blank, emotionless face in shadow. He opens the door and motions curtly for me to get out of the cage.

I hesitate, all my alarm bells going off. This man is a dangerous criminal, a _murderer_. The worst thing I can do is go with him, especially if the Australian is on his side. But I’m dead if I stay here. There's no way that slicing me up in a sparring ring is the worst Fyers can do.

There's another explosion, followed by angry shouts and gunfire. Yao Fei motions again with more urgency.

I don't need to be told again. I struggle out of the cage as quickly as my injuries will allow and almost fall to the ground. Yao Fei grabs my arm and holds me up, and I try not to flinch away. This man hasn't done anything to hurt me; in fact he's only helped me. But that could change.

"Yao Fei?" I ask in equal parts caution and gratitude.

He gives me a terse nod.

"Why are you doing this?"

His face is unreadable, then he says in thickly accented English, "You will not die today."

Just then, the Australian ducks out of the supply tent wearing a black padded vest with swords and a rifle strapped to his back. He hurries over and stops short when he reaches us. Even in the pouring rain, I can see his eyes light up with fury.

"We're not taking the girl!” he snarls. "She'll slow us down."

Yao Fei speaks for me. "She comes."

Aussie isn't anywhere near convinced. He gets right into Yao Fei's face, taking out the rifle and snapping in a magazine. "She can’t keep up! She's already half dead."

Anger and desperation burn my chest, but I can say nothing in my defense. I can’t keep up with them, but I’ll run as hard and fast as I can to escape. I'll die running if I have to.

Angry shouts break into camp, and the dark shapes of mercs flood into the far side of the camp.

"So much for your distraction!" Aussie snaps.

"Run!" Yao Fei grabs my arm and before I realize what's happening, I'm following him to the eaves of the forest and into the darkness beyond.

I stumble behind the hooded Chinese man, limping as I put pressure on my injured calf. The Australian passes me and runs ahead of us, and it's all I can do to keep up. The rain lessens dramatically under the trees and the darkness swallows us whole. My feet catch on the tangled undergrowth and I trip more than once.

After running for almost ten minutes, we come to a halt while Yao Fei searches the trees for something. Half a moment later, the distant hum of jeeps rumbles through the trees.

"They've followed us!" The Australian says. He jabs an angry finger in my direction. "If we don't dump her now, they're going to catch us."

I clench my fists. Panic - which is all too familiar now - pounds through my veins, but I'm angry now too.

"I don't have to come with you, I'll go on my own."

Yao Fei doesn't seem to hear the other man's protest, or mine. He frantically searches the forest around us, bow and arrow ready in his hands.

Now the Australian is furious. "Yao Fei!"

"She stays.”

The Australian looks ready to murder me. His eyes are wild with fire and his hand twitches on his rifle, like the smallest movement will set him off. He's only an inch or two taller than I am, but this man looms over me.

I take a step back, ready to bolt.

Yao Fei grabs Aussie's rifle arm, now just as angry. "She has information. She stays!"

I gape at him. _Information_? I don't know a damn thing! If he risked his life for that, what is he gonna do when he finds out I don’t know anything? I doubt an arrow to the throat will be less painful than a load of bullets in my gut.

"Does she now?" Aussie eyes me, not buying a single word of it. He must see the alarm and confusion in my face, because he scoffs and shoulders his rifle. "And what do you propose we do now? Or have you forgotten our bird was shot down and we're trapped here?"

"Your plane survived," Yao Fei says, lowering his bow and digging into a pant pocket. He pulls out a crumbled wad of paper and shoves it at the Australian.

The rumbling gets louder, now followed by shouts. My heart hammers in my chest and I consider running off without them. I can't outrun a truck, or trained mercenaries. But it’s dark and I can find a cave or tree or something to hide in until morning.

Yao Fei takes out a small knife and presses the hilt into my hand. I hold it out uncertainly, but he pushes it towards me. He says a Mandarin word, then yanks his hood back over his head.

"Go! I will lead them away."

And before Aussie can protest, he darts off in the direction of the pursuing soldiers. Within moments, his lithe form vanishes into the trees and he's gone.

Aussie quickly unfolds the paper and squints at the contents. He surveys it for half a moment, then folds it and shoves it into his breast pocket. I take a step back as he turns and scowls at me.

"Keep up, girl," he growls. "Fall behind, and you're dead."

"Where are we going?" I demand nervously.

“To find my plane. It crashed on the northeastern side of the island. You better pray Yao Fei was right and that it’s still there.”

Without waiting for my response, he turns and plunges into the dark trees, leaving me behind. I hesitate. There's no way I'm following this man anywhere. He already thinks I'm deadweight and was ready to shoot me only moments ago. One wrong move and I'm dead.

The yelling behind us suddenly turns into angry shouts, and there's rapid gunfire. I jump into a run without even looking behind me. The wraps on my feet loosen and slip off, but I don't stop to go back for them. I stumble along, trying to keep up with Aussie’s dodging grey coveralls and hoping to God that I'm not following him to my death. My tender feet sting as I step on roots and dead twigs on the forest floor and I desperately grasp at whatever strength I can dredge up.

The sounds of Fyers' men get distant for a bit, then after a few minutes suddenly gets louder. I look behind, and even with my sight I catch the black forms of two mercenaries sprinting through the trees, rifles raised.

The Australian also leaps into a sprint, and I scramble to match him, adrenaline shooting through me like a shock of cold water. I grit my teeth at my burning thighs and the cut on my calf that is now throbbing with fire.

Just as I turn to look behind again, the ground dips and my feet tangle in a wiry bramble. I watch in slow motion as my legs buckle and I hit the ground hard.

The Australian hears me fall and stops to turn around. "Get up!"

I try to kick my feet out of the underbrush, but my legs are numb and shaking and fear pounds through my limbs and I can't twist free. The shouts get closer and they're almost on top of me and _oh God they're going to catch me_.

"I can't!" I shout. I thrash and look at him with all the pleading and desperation I have. “Help me!”

His eyes dart to the pursuing soldiers behind me, then he presses his lips into an angry line. He turns around and sprints off, leaving me trapped in the undergrowth. 

"Wait! Hey...hey!"

Panic chokes me and I shout after him again, but he vanishes into the trees, and he doesn't look back.


	7. Tenuous Alliance

The soldiers are almost on top of me, and suddenly I'm not thinking. With strength I didn't know I had, I tear my right foot free from the undergrowth and yank away the rest with my hands until both feet are free. I jump up and bolt through the trees. My feet find speed and everything is a blur as I crash through the forest, twisting this way and that to avoid trees and brush. The ground dips and bends into dramatic trenches and valleys and I find myself angling downhill.

Suddenly the ground drops away in a sheer cliff and I almost step into nothing but air. Gasping, I skid to a halt and flail backwards onto the ground. The cliff plunges into darkness below, and I can barely see the tops of jagged boulders at the bottom. I scramble away from the edge and hold onto the ground with all my might. The feeling of almost running straight off a cliff takes away any fight I have.

My fall gives the soldiers a warning, and they skid to a stop just behind me and raise their rifles.

"That's far enough," one says in a thick accent. "You're done running now, love."

I grip the ground, hyperventilating. I don't dare move.

"How about you tell us where you're going?" the other asks, rifle pointed at my head. "And where Wilson is?"

My mind races. I wasn't going _anywhere!_ I have no plan, just the survival instinct to run away from danger and not die -

No. I do know where I was going.

The Australian’s plane, to the northeastern side of the island. I have no idea where or how close that is, or even what kind of plane it is. But Yao Fei risked his life twice to save me. He’s far away now and won’t...can't...do it again, but I owe him something, anything.

"Speak!" the soldier barks.

Nona and James flash into my mind, and I imagine telling them about the mysterious Chinese man who rescued their sister from bad men.

I press my face into the ground. "I don't know."

"Bullshit. You were with them the entire time, you bitch,” he spits. "That Ching Chong wank killed an entire unit. You know exactly where they're going."

I can't catch my breath; my lungs feel like they’ve been scrubbed raw with sandpaper and I tremble violently. And that cliff is too close...

The first merc holds a radio to his mouth. "This is Aeolus unit. We're two klicks southeast of the camp. We have the female, but we lost Wilson. Request to continue pursuit." He motions his rifle at me. "Get up."

I briefly wonder if rolling over the cliff and falling to my death is better than being shot. But I'm paralyzed on the ground either way.

The soldier jabs the rifle into the crook between my neck and shoulder. "Get _up_."

I flinch and slowly struggle to my shaking knees. He grabs my arm and yanks me up the rest of the way. He sets his rifle down and pulls black rope from a pouch on his chest and claps my hands together, tying them tightly.

"Now, we'll ask you again," the second soldier says. "Where is that Aussie bastard, and where are you meeting Yao Fei?"

I clamp my mouth shut and just look at them fearfully. If they want fear from me, they'll get plenty.

Then a British voice comes over the radio.

_"Kill the woman. Pursue Wilson and terminate him. Focus all remaining efforts on finding Yao Fei alive."_

My heart stops. They're going to kill me.

_I'm going to die._

Suddenly, a wild animal instinct takes over, and without thinking I turn and jab my elbow into the closest soldier's face as hard as I can. He jerks backward, surprised. I thrust my elbow at him again, throwing all my strength at him. He takes a step back, but he's already regaining composure and swipes my elbow out of the way. The other soldier quickly raises his rifle and without thinking, I kick at him. And somehow, _somehow_...it works. My foot snags on the rifle that the other soldier had set on the ground, and the swing knocks it straight up and jabs him in the kneecap, probably much harder than my own kick. Distracted by the sudden pain in his knee, the soldier stumbles backwards and looks down. I'm just as surprised as he is, but I turn to make a run for it.

The soldier I elbowed grabs me from behind in a tight lock. Thinking only to make him stop, I throw my weight back and kick and lash out with my legs. I get his shin with my heel, and I swing my elbows desperately, trying to hit him again. My insane, uncontrollable movement pushes him off balance, and he stumbles backwards. I feel his arms slacken around my chest and I try to push him off, but his momentum pulls me backward with him. Then suddenly I'm not standing on ground anymore.

The ground disappears beneath me, the cliff wall melts away, my stomach drops. And I'm falling right over the edge of the cliff.

I shriek and - reacting purely on instinct -I fling out my tied hands to catch something, _anything_, to stop my fall. Somehow I catch a tree root before I go all the way over, and the world is a crashing, spinning blur before I realize I stopped falling. I find myself dangling over the edge, holding onto the root with strength I didn't know I had. But it's already giving way in my hands and I slide downwards. I scream and squeeze my eyes shut.

Suddenly, a dark, gloved hand seizes my arm and hauls me upwards. I slide up over the ravine edge and find myself back on solid ground. Relief floods me, but I don't have time to think about it because the other soldier is right on me. I thrash on the ground and use all my strength to get away from his iron grip, and I stumble onto my knees and try to run again.

“Stop struggling!” the intruder snaps.

His voice freezes me in my tracks. This man doesn’t wear a mask, and his coveralls are grey, not black. It's not the soldier -

It's the _Australian?_

His bearded face wild and perturbed, he drags me away from the ravine's edge and onto higher ground. Stunned, I go limp and he releases me.

He swipes a knife from the ground - Yao Fei's knife, the one I didn't realize I even dropped - and slits the rope around my wrists. He tucks the cord into his own chest pouch and tosses me the knife. I clumsily catch it and hold it awkwardly in front of me. He bends over something lying on the ground and it's then that I realize what happened.

The mercenary - the one with the weird accent - lies dead on the ground. He's facedown with his arms and legs sprawled out, like he was thrown down. Dark liquid pools out from a long, deep gash on his back and soaks the ground beneath it. The Australian rifles through his clothing, slipping his hands into the pockets in his vest and pants. He pulls magazines from a pouch in his trousers and strips the man's vest off.

My legs tremble like jelly and everything is a whirling blur. The Australian killed him...he came back and killed him. Why on earth did he come back?

"What are you doing?" I ask shakily. It’s all I can think to say.

He slings the military rifle across his back and stuffs his pockets with the extra magazines and ammo. He even slips the soldier's water canteen into one of his pant pockets. I suddenly realize how thirsty I am and my throat aches for water. I don’t dare ask him for some.

“Move it,” he snaps. “The others aren’t far behind.”

He bends down and snags the other soldier's rifle, slinging it over his shoulder too -

The other soldier.

I turn and search the dark ravine just feet away. I can't bring myself to get close to the edge again, but I don't have to. About thirty feet below is a darkly clad body. He lies sprawled out on the rough bottom of the ravine, his neck bent at a severe angle. And utterly still.

My veins fill with cold lead and I can't move. That soldier fell off the cliff because I made him stumble and fall...

I made someone die.

The world shrinks until there’s nothing but the soldier and his unnaturally twisted neck...

"Girl!"

The Australian's guttural voice snaps me out of it.

I jump. He's already several yards away, motioning angrily for me to follow.

One more glance at the dead soldier far below, then in a blurry haze I step into a run after him. He doesn't wait for me to catch up; he breaks into a swift jog and dodges through the trees again. My body screams at me to stop moving, to lie down and never get up again. I almost fell off a cliff and died - I was almost shot. I can't handle this. But I can't think about it, or I really will lie down and never get up again.

I killed someone, I _killed someone..._

I follow the Australian's grey coveralls. He has an arsenal of weapons and ammo strapped to his back and chest, but he moves just as quickly as he did before. I crash along after him, panting and wheezing, black spots dancing at the edge of my vision. The trees aren't so dark anymore and the forest lightens into a blueish gray. The tall trees and steep slopes of the mountainous terrain throw dark shadows on the ground, but it's nearly dawn.

We aren't running for long before we hear shouts again.

The Australian comes to a nimble halt and holds up a hand for me to stop. We’re paused only for half a moment when mercenaries crash into view and suddenly I’m in the middle of an attack. The Australian bellows a battle cry as he jumps into the fray, unsheathing his sword and swinging it down on the soldier in front of him in one stroke.

There are five of them and they all converge on the Australian with angry shouts. I leap backwards and try to turn and run, but one of the soldiers sees me. He raises his rifle and aims right at me. All my exhaustion suddenly gone, I duck behind a tree just as he fires. The bullet goes right through the tree only inches from my head, and I squeal as bits of bark explode outward and hit my face and neck.

The merc rounds the other side of the tree and aims his rifle at me. Suddenly remembering the knife in my hand, I thrust it as hard as I can in his direction. He sidesteps to easily dodge it, and the motion angles the gun right at my gut. I instantly do the only thing I can think of and throw the knife at him. It hits him hilt first on the bridge of his nose, and he jerks backward in surprise. The momentum of my throw is enough to throw me off balance and I flail awkwardly to the ground.

But no attack comes.

I look up at the soldier just in time to see something long and sharp jut out of his throat. There's a moment of delayed time where he stands suspended like that, then he slumps to the ground. Dark red pours from the wound in his neck, and for a frightful moment, he's choking. His head now level on the ground with mine, I watch him grab at his neck with the most horrific gurgling, choking sound I've ever heard. And then he's still.

And just like that, the forest is silent again. The fight was only _seconds_.

I look up, and the Australian stands over the soldier, bloody sword in hand and face wild with ferocity. Horrified, I scramble to my feet and back against the tree.

"Next time, stab him with the _blade_,” he snarls. He swipes Yao Fei's knife from the ground, then grabs me by the collar and yanks my face right up into his. "I assume you're smart enough to know which part of the knife that is."

His face is so close I can both feel and smell his angry breath, but I don’t dare move. Blood splotches his face, and it’s definitely not his. The whites of his manic eyes are rimmed with red veins, and he looks so furious that I’m terrified he’ll run me through with his sword.

But he doesn't. He releases me, slaps the knife into my hand with disgust, wipes his own blade clean on the dead soldier's tunic, and sheaths it on his back.

"Fyers will send out other patrols once he learns what happened to this one. We're not safe until we find the plane, but that's not happening today. We'll backtrack and take the long way to the northeastern peninsula, and hope we lose any pursuers. Not even Fyers knows every inch of this island."

I barely listen as he speaks. Around us are the bodies of five soldiers, all sprawled out like they died in motion. Some still hold weapons in their lifeless hands. Every one of them is sliced open or stabbed.

He didn't just kill them, he slaughtered them.

One of the merc's bodies looks wrong and misshapen, and as I stare at him, it clicks. He doesn't have a head. It’s tucked into the undergrowth a few feet away, still wrapped in the black mask. A mass of blood pools around the now headless body, the dark liquid pulsing out where his head used to be.

And that's the final straw. My legs wobble and go weak, and I slump to my hands and knees. The world spins and spins and meshes with the dark mass of blood, from the headless soldier, the man stabbed in the neck who choked to death on his own blood, the soldier bleeding out at the top of the cliff and the one lying dead at the bottom, his body twisted in an unnatural angle...

And I vomit.

I'm done. I can't do this. I saw men die right in front of me, I saw them _murdered_. I accidentally killed one and they’re all trying to kill me...

I throw up all the bile and fear in me until I’m dry heaving, but it’s not enough. There’s so much jam packed in my stomach and I’ll never get it out, not ever. The sight of all these dead men, the tangy, metallic of stench of blood that I now smell. It’s all there forever.

It’s several minutes before I can rise again to my feet, and even then I tremble. With fear, or exhaustion, or horror, or all three.

The Australian looks perturbed, but his expression softens a little.

“You’ve got some fight,” he acknowledges, but nowhere near impressed. “You’re lucky you’ve made it this far. Most civilians would have crumpled at the first sign of a fight.” He looks over the bodies and nudges them here and there with his boot. “But you’re barely half alive. At the rate you’re going, you’ll be dead by morning.”

It is morning. Dick.

But he doesn’t seem to notice the backhanded compliment. He walks back and hands me a canteen he pilfered off one of the soldiers. I take it cautiously. He observes me for a moment, then holds out a hand. A large, strong hand that could break me in two.

"Slade Wilson."

Slade Wilson. What the fuck kind of name is Slade?

His dark eyes, which were wide and fiery only moments ago, are calm now; but I don't let that fool me. He wanted to kill me back in the camp, and he would have if Yao Fei didn't step in. And he left me to die. I don't know what made him come back, but he obviously didn't do it out of the goodness of his heart. I would rather run into the forest on my own that take any chance with him. But I only survived tonight because he showed up. If Fyers's men find me again, I'm dead. I have no choice, I have to trust him.

But only as much as it takes to keep me alive.

"Malin," I finally reply. I don't take his hand.

If he’s offended, he doesn’t show it. "Got a first name, Malin?"

"That _is_ my first name."

He raises a disdainful eyebrow, unimpressed. I shrivel under his gaze, but hold my ground.

"Suit yourself." And the conversation is over.

He picks up a few more things from the bodies, which I notice smell strongly now. A smell I can’t name, but it churns my stomach all the same.

“Keep up. We’ll rest when we get to the other side of this peak. But I don't have time to babysit a schoolgirl. If you fall behind again, you’re on your own.”

That goes without saying.

“And Yao Fei?” I ask warily.

“He’ll meet us there, if he’s not already dead.”

And then just like that, he’s off again.

I trudge after him, trembling with both cold and an overwhelming emotion I can’t name. The details of the forest blur together and time passes with the clarity of a dream. I stumble along, the adrenaline taking longer to fade this time, but all of my injuries and exhaustion are much more poignant. I feel every cut, every bruise. The sun rises in the trees ahead of us as we hurry along, and the forest is light enough to see.

Eventually, we come to a cave tucked underneath a deep ledge with long, drooping, overgrown branches covering most of the opening. No one would see it unless they looked closely.

The Australian pulls aside the branches and looks expectantly at me. I’m too exhausted to resist, so I stumble inside first. It’s shallow and there’s barely enough room for two people to lie down. But to my relief, he doesn’t. He crouches near the entrance and lays out his arsenal, taking stock of everything he took from the dead soldiers.

"I'll take the first watch," he says simply. "If you're going to sleep, do it now. You'll need every minute when we begin our search."

I collapse to the ground and weakly pull my knees to my chest. I'm beyond exhausted and numb all over, but not enough to forget that the man in front of me is a barbarian. He could kill me - or worse - if he wanted and I couldn't do jack shit about it.

This stranger...Slade Wilson. I won’t take my eyes off him. I'll stay awake all day if I have to.

But the resolution is short lived as my body succumbs to pure exhaustion, and Slade's crouching form is the last thing I see as I fade into unconsciousness.


	8. Mountains of Molehills

Sometime around midmorning I'm roughly shaken awake.

"Rise and shine." The Australian...Slade Wilson...stands over me. "We need to get a move on before a patrol finds us."

I sit up in a groggy haze and rub my eyes. Somehow I'm still clutching Yao Fei's knife. "Are they close?"

"No," he answers, kneeling and putting his array of weapons and supplies into a pack. "But they will be if we dawdle around like we're on holiday."

Did he get any sleep at all? The thought makes me uncomfortable that I was asleep while he was doing God knows what.

I move my stiff legs and get the first real look at myself. There are cuts and scratches all over my arms and legs, the wound on my calf throbs dully, and I'm sore and numb everywhere. And my dirty clothes are streaked with the rusty-brown of dried blood. I'm a pathetic mess. I can't imagine what my face looks like.

Slade tosses a pack to me.

"Where'd you get this?" I ask. He grabbed lots of weapons and things from the soldiers last night, but I didn't see him take anything this large.

"Scout passing through this morning. He won't be needing it anymore."

He killed another mercenary for this. An image leaps up of a faceless merc slashed to pieces and lying in a pool of his own blood. If he really was a scout, then sooner or later Fyers will notice his absence, and he'll guess we're to blame.

"They'll notice he's gone," I mutter.

"Don't worry," the Australian says with a tone that makes me very worried. "They'll find his body further back along his route, and we'll be long gone by then. So quit dawdling and get a move on."

The pack looks more like a tactical vest than an actual backpack, with pockets crammed over every inch of its surface. It's surprisingly heavy, but it's empty aside from a water canteen - not even halfway full - and assorted packs of ammo. I find a small roll of bandages in a side pocket and I quickly unroll it to wrap my bruised, bare feet. Slade shoots me a disdainful look over his shoulder.

I ignore it.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"We need to find the plane," he explains with surprising patience. "It was shot down during our attempt to air drop onto the island, but it was intact when we ejected. Hopefully it's still in one piece. I'm confident its location is unknown to Fyers, or else he would have destroyed it. He isn't shy about gloating." He points to a spot on the crumpled map, now smoothed out on the floor. "According to Yao Fei, the plane landed here, on the northeastern peninsula of the island. We're going to make our way there by cutting across southeast, then moving up north." He motions towards the bottom half of the island, then traces up to the highest point on the right where a roughly scribbled "x" marks a spot on the coastline. "It should take no more than two days to get there, if we play our hand right."

Two days!

Slade stands, and I get a clear view of the map. The island...Lian Yu...is oddly misshapen, with a wild, spidery coastline. Like someone splattered an egg on the ground and drew an outline around it. There are four red circles clustered in the middle. Peaks. The rest of the surrounding circles are various shades of yellow and green. This must be an elevation map. To get to the south, we have to climb down one mountain and go completely around the base of another. _Two entire days _of hiking around an island without any shoes.

"Why can't we just go straight there?" I ask, feeling rather stupid.

Slade is weirdly patient, but still not impressed with me. "If Fyers's men are tailing us, we'll lead them right to the plane and jeopardize our only chance of escape. We need to shake anyone following us."

I finish tying the wraps on my feet. They're much tighter and hopefully more durable than the shirt I used. That Asian man's shirt, who I found facedown on the beach...

I close my eyes and shut it out. I can't think about that. Not while I'm still running for my life. Later, when it's all over and I'm safe, I'll have time to process, but now... All I have to do is survive the next two days, and then I'll go home. Hope swells in my chest and for a moment I let it simmer there. The thought of being rescued, of going home and seeing my family...scooping Nona and James up in the biggest bear hug and never letting go, leaving this island where I've seen more death in three days than most people see in a lifetime...I almost cry with relief right there.

"So we can escape in that plane," I say, trying to keep all emotion out of my voice.

"If Fyers's men don't catch us. And if Yao Fei was honest about its location."

So there's a chance he wouldn't be honest. Why would he risk his life to rescue us if he's just going to lie about where the plane is? But I don't say that. I awkwardly stand to my feet and shoulder the pack.

Slade's patient streak seems to be just about up, and he says with a strange, emotionless tone, "Don't fall behind."

And then he's off again, without so much as a look back to make sure I'm following.

I scramble out of the cave after him, holding Yao Fei's knife and already hating the weight of my pack. Slade trudges ahead, walking quickly and nimbly, his head turning this way and that as he sweeps the forest. I'm completely dependent on him, as I can't see for shit.

We walk for forever, keeping to the steep slopes of hills and passing through trenches. Even with my eyesight, I occasionally see the hard-packed ground of a trail, clearly man made. Slade steers us away from these and moves parallel to them, staying in the high ground. He moves at a steady pace, pausing occasionally to hold up his fist in a 'halt' motion as he listens and scouts the area. I listen too, but if anyone follows us, they do so expertly and quietly.

I have no sense of time here; everything is the same dull grey light. The forest is muted greens and greys and browns, and the blurry outlines of trees go out in all directions. Slade says nothing to me, except the occasional "Quiet," as he listens for intruders. But he doesn't talk to me, doesn't even acknowledge I'm here. Which is fine by me. I'm not sure how to talk to him, let alone relate to him in any way. I do have so many questions, like why he's here, why he was in the cage, how he knows Yao Fei, who even _is_ Yao Fei, and who the hell Fyers is for that matter... But I don't want to bother him now. Or ever.

At first, we angle downhill for forever as we climb down the first mountain. Then the ground evens out a bit. Slade leads us into a trench, pulling out the map every now and then to check our position. I have no idea where we are, except through the vague directions he gave earlier, and I'm not sure what he's using for reference. He leads us down through a deep gorge and we pick our way along the edge, sometimes sloshing through the marshy water at the bottom when the bank disappears. I grit my teeth and ignore how slimy the rocky bottom feels against my toes.

Eventually the gorge levels out into flat ground, and Slade tells me that we've rounded the base of the largest mountain and are now going north. By the end of tomorrow, we should more or less find the plane.

No sign of Yao Fei, or Fyers and his men. And no sign of the white and black masked man, Wintergreen. I didn't see him during the fray last night, so who knows where he was.

The sun starts to set, the shadows lengthen, the air cools, and soon I'm shivering. Not to mention flat out exhausted and sore. Slade doesn't stop for the night until he's satisfied with our progress, and eventually we stop at a small cave barely big enough for one person, let alone two. The cave is long and shallow, like someone scooped out the base of the rock with a giant spoon. It's tall enough to sit up comfortably in, and just long enough for one person to lie all the way down. And it's open and exposed to the elements, and we're not protected from anything except rain. But apparently it's ideal for Slade.

Within an hour, Slade has a fire going and I find myself devouring a rabbit he caught while I gathered wood. The meat tastes gamey and I would hate it anywhere else, but it's food, and it's the second real meal I've had in days. Better than raw bird.

After dinner, Slade takes out his arsenal of weapons, which is two rifles, several handguns, and two swords. He checks them for water damage and takes out a cloth to clean them. I'm more than happy to ignore him and just collapse into sleep, but he gives me no such luck.

"All day trudging through mountains and rivers," he states, "and not a single complaint from you. I'm impressed."

I give him a sidelong look, not sure if that's genuine praise or concealed sarcasm. I cross my arms and huddle closer to the fire. Please stop talking to me.

He gives himself a grim smile. "You're not very chatty. Surprising for a schoolgirl. You lot can't seem to stop running your mouths."

I bristle, but I don't respond right away.

"We're running for our lives," I say evenly. "What's there to talk about?"

Slade snorts. "For a start, you might tell me what you did to piss off Fyers so grandly. Keeping you caged was an unneeded strain on resources. He would have simply killed you if he thought you weren't worth the trouble."

His tone unnerves me. This isn't the first time he's spoken about horrific things in such a casual voice. Like he's describing the weather. Hell, even people describing the weather have more emotion than that.

I shrug and start to pick through the pockets of my own pack. "I didn't do anything. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Slade considers it for a moment. "He must have thought you were an A.S.I.S. agent. It explains why he tried to bait Yao Fei and I with your torture."

Bait _him_? How? Fyers did mention something about an 'organization,' how he thought someone sent me to the island to rescue Yao Fei. And I figured torturing me was just for show, to get Yao Fei to respond. Fyers admitted as much. But what did that have to do with Slade?

He reads my expression. "Fyers put you in that cage to test me. No doubt he wanted to see if we exchanged information about his operation and the whereabouts of Yao Fei. When you didn't respond to the challenge code, I was surprised he didn't just kill you. He must have been desperate to use you as bait."

It's a lot to take in, but one thing in particular puzzles me. "Challenge code?"

"It's a secret phrase intelligence agents use to identify other agents. No doubt Fyers knew it and was hoping you would respond."

I'm confused. Slade didn't say anything that sounded like a code when we were in the cages. "What was the phrase?"

He gives me an amused look. "You're a long way from home."

Oh. That was the very first thing he said to me. So he's an intelligence agent, a member of this...A.S.I.S. organization. It explains so many things. During my second interrogation, Fyers said that he thought I was an agent sent to rescue Yao Fei because the previous two agents failed. Slade must have been one of those two. But he doesn't look like an intelligence agent. He looks like a thug you'd hire to shake down a terrorist. His face - which was wild and manic last night - is calm now. There's no trace of that bloodthirsty fury, but I saw how quickly he snapped out of it yesterday. One wrong word or question could make it snap back, and then I'm as dead as all those mercs.

"You were sent to rescue Yao Fei..." I venture slowly, watching him for a reaction.

"My partner and I," he assents with no trace of irritation or anger. "We're Australian Secret Intelligence Service. Or we were, until Fyers blasted us out of the sky damn near a year ago."

He was in that cage for a year? What happened to his partner? He must have died in the crash, or else we would have seen him. Somewhere in Slade's voice, I hear a bitter edge, and see the flash in his eyes when he says 'partner.' I don't ask him about it, despite my now burning curiosity.

"Why were you trying to rescue him? Who is he?" I ask.

Slade is silent for a moment. He stokes the dying embers of the fire into another steady blaze.

"He's a former member of the Chinese military," he says. "Our mission was to infiltrate Fyers' camp and extract him."

That still doesn't explain much. "Why?"

A muscle in Slade's jaw twitches. "His purpose is classified, and you already know too much."

Fine, asshole. I'm already in the middle of all this, so the least he can do is explain what's going on. But I don't dare press him.

I shut my mouth and go back to sorting through my pack. In one of the pockets I find a lighter, and a baggie of cigarettes. I don't need the cigarettes, but it feels weird to toss them away. They meant something to this soldier...when he was alive.

Slade is the first to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Yao Fei said you have information," he says, whetting his sword with a stone. "Feel like sharing?"

There it is. In all the chaos, I completely forgot. I chew my tongue and consider lying. I could make it up, tell him I knew something important and that I had to stay alive because it affected his mission. But there's nothing I know about Yao Fei or Fyers that he doesn't already know. Something tells me he would see right through it anyway.

"I'm not sure what he was talking about," I say slowly. "I don't know anything."

Slade doesn't buy it. "Yao Fei was under a different impression."

I take a breath. "I think...he was just trying to save me. You know more about all of this than I do."

Slade's eyes flash and his hands stop.

"You mean to tell me Yao Fei risked both of our lives to save a useless girl?"

My heart leaps into my throat and I grip Yao Fei's knife close. Slade sits in the entrance of the cave blocking my escape. If he lashes out, I'm trapped. I bite down my fear and say nothing. No sudden moves.

He falls silent, and I wait for the hammer to fall. I feel the knife's smooth wooden hilt against my dirty palm, and I imagine how hard I would have to stab him if he attacks me.

But no attack comes. His lips curl up in icy amusement, and he rubs his mouth. "So, Yao Fei has a soft spot for young women. I should have known this island would make him soft. I take it that jacket is his?"

I shift uncomfortably and finger one of the long, green sleeves. It won't help to tell him why Yao Fei gave it to me.

Slade huffs and rises to his feet. "Well, isn't that wonderful? I have an untrained civilian and a sentimental digger to babysit. Just my luck."

He picks up his pack and steps to the back of the cave, right where I am. Alarmed, I immediately sit up and scoot away. But he only plops down on the ground and stretches out, arranging his pack underneath his head like a pillow.

"Make yourself useful and take the first watch. Wake me if you hear anything, and don't let the fire go out."

Squeezed out of the cave, I scoot to the entrance near the fire and feel more than a little relieved. He's not going to kill me. He's clearly not happy I'm here, but I'm safe for now. But now I'm stuck on watch while he sleeps. I don't dare tell him how nearsighted I am. He'll figure it out eventually, but hopefully not until we're safely on the plane and my life doesn't depend on him anymore.

I'm dead exhausted and I ache all over, and I want nothing more than to curl up and sleep. I don't know how I'll stay awake for a whole watch, however long that is. He stayed awake this morning while I slept, so technically it's fair. But I didn't sign up for this shit. He did.

"How long is a watch?" I ask.

"Two hours. Don't tell me Americans can't keep track of time."

Not without a clock, dumbass. How am I supposed to know what time it is when it's solid dark outside?

He grunts irritably and slips a watch off his wrist and tosses it to me. I don't know much about watches, but even I can tell this one is expensive. Gold rims its black, shiny face, and somehow the glass is immaculate. It's suddenly funny that this gruff and tough military intelligence agent likes expensive watches.

"We'll find the plane tomorrow." He adjusts himself on the ground. "Your job is to survive until then. Think you can manage that?"

I chew my tongue and say nothing. Haven't I been surviving? I _am_ a schoolgirl, and fighting and running and hiding in the wilderness isn't something I know how to do. But I'm doing it. I've done far more than he's expected, so he can just lay off.

But Slade doesn't wait for a protest or even my agreement. He closes his eyes and within moments his breathing is steady and rhythmic.

I hold his wristwatch in one hand, Yao Fei's knife in the other. The woods beyond the fire are dark, and I can't see anything beyond the flames. I scoot a little to the side, but the view isn't any better. The snapping and popping of the fire seem too loud, and I want to put it out. But it's cold, and the fire is the only warmth I'll get all night.

Tomorrow I go home. I just have to make it through one night of keeping watch. And then I'll be gone from this island, from death, and from the frightening Australian snoozing soundly behind me. I clutch the knife, pull Yao Fei's jacket close, and wait.

It's the longest two hours of my life.


End file.
